


Catch the Tide

by lurkdusoleil



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Humor, M/M, Modern Fantasy, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkdusoleil/pseuds/lurkdusoleil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>What had been a seal was a white-skinned boy.</i> </p><p> </p><p>  <a href="catch-the-tide-fic.tumblr.com/">Choose your own adventure.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as a choose-your-own-adventure style work on Tumblr. This is the completed story.

The rocks are like drums. They sing as they are hit, by water, salt, wind. Blaine has grown used to their percussion—he sleeps through their screams, their plaintive tappings. He sleeps, and he works, and he waits. For nothing, for everything. For life. The sea never offers it to him—the sea’s got some seaweed, some fish, the seals that hang out by the rocks on the island to the north, some seagulls that eat Blaine’s leftover breakfast if he tosses it out. Water. That’s it. It has nothing for him. But then, neither did the rest of the world.

He’d retreated to this secluded seaside cottage months ago. A gift, from a producer he’d befriended. _Go take some time for yourself, Blaine_ , he’d said. _Spend some time with you._

Blaine’s not sure who that is. He’s been playing at being other people for so long that he thinks he might have forgotten, with no anchor off the stage to keep him… _him_. So he’d come out here to find himself.

He hasn’t found a damn thing. Just the rocks’ song. It hasn’t reminded him of the songs he’d wanted to sing as a child. It hasn’t reminded him of who he is. He suspects it’s because he never really knew in the first place.

—

It’s a day literally like any other, because Blaine never does a damn thing differently. He wakes up and makes himself breakfast, complete with a full carafe of strong coffee. He eats the food. He drinks the coffee. And then he sits out on the porch, staring at the sea, and he thinks. Sometimes he writes. Sometimes he goes into town. But he always ends up back on his fucking porch.

He’s getting tired of it. Day after day. Week after week. The same food, the same coffee, the same porch, the same sea, the same song. Blaine can’t seem to find anything in it. At first it was fun, like a puzzle to unlock. Now it’s just monotony. There’s nothing in it. There’s nothing in the cottage. There’s nothing much in the town half a mile down the barely-used path to this beach. There’s nothing in _him_. Nothing.

He walks down to the shore mid-morning. He kicks at the sand, and skips rocks, maybe reads a book. He tries to write, thinking of a play he wants to publish. The words don’t come. The notes to the songs don’t reach him. All he has is a steady beat, but he can’t make an entire play on a pulse alone.

He can’t make anything on a pulse alone. He’s been trying. That’s the problem.

On that particular morning, he is frustrated. Lost. Hurting. He stares at his notebook, stares at the words he’s written, forced out of him and onto paper, the words he hates, and as the anger bubbles up inside him, he clenches his hands around the fragile pages. They crinkle, warp, but they don’t change into anything better.

"Just— _fuck it!”_

He throws the notebook into the water, hurling it as far as he can. It skids over a few rocks, and drops into the waves out of sight. For good measure, he tosses his pen as well. It flies beyond the edge of the rocks.

It hits something. That something cries out.

But there’s never anything out here, in all the time Blaine has been here. Just him, and the tide.So what could possibly be beyond the rocks? Blaine _knows_ there’s no one out here. And the cry hadn’t sounded like an animal. Was he hearing things? Did his pen just hit a wayward seagull that he can’t see? Is someone hiding out there?

He has to find out. He bounds down the sandy slope to the outcropping of rock that borders his little personal inlet to the sea on the southern side, and climbs up. The rocks are slippery, but Blaine manages to totter and balance his way out from the shore and to the end of the rocks. He clings to the furthest rock from shore, trying to keep his feet on its slanted, slick surface, and peeks over the edge.

Nothing. Nothing around him, not even his pen.

He relaxes, stepping back onto a flatter rock and sitting down, cross-legged, grimacing at the cold seawater that seeps into his pants. It doesn’t matter—the air is cool with the breeze, and it’s not quite summer yet, but the air is warm, the sun peeking from behind clouds as it makes its rapid descent into evening. So Blaine just sits there, sighing, looking out at the water, listening to the waves, glancing out to the further reaches along the beach. No boats, no fishermen, no tourists on a cruise. The seagulls are seeking their scavenger’s fare elsewhere, and the distant rocks to the north are empty today but for one lonely seal, who offers a bark that reaches Blaine faintly.

"Yeah, hi," Blaine says, waving at the seal. Why not? That’s all that’s out here. Blaine probably heard its bark echoing just as he threw the pen. Which would make the seal an asshole. Or him. Or both of them.

So he climbs to his feet, flips the seal off, and clambers back to shore, hiking up the little bit of beach until he reaches his borrowed little cottage. He kind of hopes his producer will call him and demand it back at some point, but honestly, he doesn’t expect it. He’s not quite sure when touring season is up here in Nova Scotia, but there’s barely a population in the nearby town and the only other cottage Blaine has strolled past on this little peninsula was unoccupied.

Just him and the seal out here, which still barks every once in a while. Two assholes. Maybe that’s why the seal is alone. It was such a jerk that the other seals exiled it to land, and now it’s spotted Blaine and decided to harass him instead. Maybe he’ll write a story about that. Blaine, the annoying seal, banished to some rocky beach to get out of the way of the other, younger, more talented seals that have fresher faces and more interesting news stories than one boyfriend after another providing heartbroken performances of the same fucking characters over and over—

It’s just possible that Blaine might be jaded. He used to be such a fresh-faced, naive, hopeful boy. But it’s been ten years since he was “discovered” at the tender age of twenty-one, since he became a Broadway star. How far he’s come.

Blaine takes a beer out to the porch. The seal has quieted—it’s nowhere to be seen. The sun is setting; the breeze is cold. The beer is colder, and it tastes kind of like what Blaine imagines alcoholic pee would taste like, but that’s what’s in the fridge and going into town to get something else doesn’t sound appealing.

At the end of that bottle, on a whim, Blaine gets up, grabs two more beers, and takes them down to the rocks. He holds them tight as he climbs back out on the rocks, scrambling to find the nice flat rock from earlier before the sun goes down completely. He wants to watch the sunset with the sea spray around him, immersed in the land. With alcohol. Why not. Maybe drunkenness and nature will intertwine into something that inspires him—

He slips, and crashes down. He falls into the water and manages to bash his knee against a jagged rock, its edge lodging itself right in between a couple of bones. He surfaces and gasps for breath, wet and freezing and in a lot of pain. He has to get back onto something solid—his knee is killing him and it might be cut, he needs to see if he’s bleeding—and fuck, are there sharks around here?

He pulls himself up on the rock, and is immediately face-to-face with what he slipped on.

It’s a seal. And it’s… _empty_. It’s just the skin, rather, and Blaine fights down the urge to back away so that he doesn’t fall in the water again.

But there’s no blood or anything gross like that. It’s just skin. Flat, clean seal skin, like it’s a suit.

What on earth? Was—was someone out here poaching the seals, wearing this costume to get close? Or was someone trying to mess with him, pose as a seal? Was the barking earlier a prankster? No, it _looked_ like a real seal, the seals had been around before.

It doesn’t make any _sense_. He pokes the skin, and investigates closer, and—there’s nothing to see, really. It’s just skin, all in one piece but for a slit near where the top of the spine would be. Except—there’s no vertebrae. So—the neck? The base of the head? Otherwise, it’s slippery and rubbery and really, really weird.

So what on earth is it?

Whatever it is, Blaine has to get back to the cottage, no matter what this thing lying here is. He’s soaking wet and freezing cold, and his leg is killing him and it feels like it’s swelling in his jeans. He has to get back.

But should he leave it out here? What if it’s someone’s property? Or something valuable? It’ll just get washed away by the night tide, and then what?

Blaine picks up the skin, struggling to hold its slippery weight, and limps his way back over the rocks. The pain is intense, but the journey isn’t far, and thankfully the hike up the sand isn’t nearly as long as the stable rock surface before he reaches his porch and manages to open the door with a complicated, tight maneuver so as to keep the skin in his arms. It’s large, and _heavy_ , and what was he even _thinking_ —

When he gets inside, he dumps the skin over the huge ottoman in front of the huge sectional couch in the tiny living room, and it feels so cluttered, but honestly Blaine cannot care. He collapses onto the couch and, wincing, eases his leg up, bumping the skin out of the way to rest his leg on the ottoman. He should get some ice, wrap it maybe, but it just hurts right now and he wants to _rest_ and figure out what this day has been.

He kind of regrets losing those beers now, too. There’s only one left in the fridge, and he doesn’t have any liquor around. He has a strong urge to get wasted and pass out. But to do that, he’ll have to make a trip into town—which involves walking, because he doesn’t have a car out here. And he doesn’t know if he could even make it to the kitchen, let alone half a mile into town.

Maybe he can write. Journal the day’s experience, something, _anything_ to get words out. His spare notebook is right there on the side table, all he has to do is lean over—

_Ding-ding-ding-ding-diiiiiiiing—_

"What now?" Blaine sighs to himself, looking incredulously at the front door. Who the hell is here? He’s not more than peripherally acquainted with anyone from town—could it be his producer, come to ask for the cottage back? But he has a key—but who would ring the doorbell like that, over and over?

Blaine’s urge to drink and pass out grows stronger, but added onto it is the urge to slam some pillows over his ears. And it’s not stopping.

_Ding-ding-ding-ding-diiiiiiiing-diiiiiiiing-ding-ding-ding._

Blaine shouts, “I’m coming!” and lurches up. He hobbles to the door, and looks out from behind the curtain over the half-door window.

There’s a man on his porch. A stunning, _naked_ man. There’s sand in his hair and on his arms and his delicately poised, miles-long legs, and water drips down his pale, muscled body, and Blaine watches on roll down a sculpted chest, down to his flat stomach, through a faint trail of hair—

_Holy shit there’s a naked man on my porch._

Blaine opens the door, and the man looks up at him with the faintest bit of smile on his wide mouth, his eyes blinking slowly at Blaine.

"Are you willing to talk to me now?" he asks in a sly voice, his smile widening as he steps forward.

  
  


Blaine panics. There is a very strange, very naked man crowding into him, almost inside his home, and he is tired and still wet and in a lot of pain, and so, so confused.

He shuts the door, right in the naked man’s face.

"I’m not going anywhere," comes the trilling call from the other side, and Blaine sighs deeply. Oh, great. He has a beautiful, naked stalker.

He hobbles to the kitchen, and pulls out the last beer. He really should just take some painkillers and go to bed, but this day has been pretty bad overall, despite getting a really great eyeful of gorgeous man. He just has to be a psycho, of course—and come to think of it, Blaine’s had a couple boyfriends like that. Overeager men who fawned over the stardom, or cold, manipulative men who wanted to use Blaine to let their own voices shine--

And then Blaine realizes that he’s hearing a voice. High, pretty, like a flute. Some happy melody, in a language Blaine doesn’t speak that sounds sort of like French. He peers out the front window, shielding his eyes to block out the light from his own house, and sees the naked man down on the beach, dancing and spinning in the sand, and the music is coming from him.

A singing psycho, then. Whose body is lithe, moonlight slipping along the curves of his muscles, bending and twisting the shadows with them as he continues his strange little dance. He’s graceful, but he’s stiff—it’s like he’s not quite used to his own body, like he’s just had a growth spurt or something. But he looks to be around Blaine’s age—growth spurts don’t tend to happen when someone’s creeping up past three decades of life. Do they?

Blaine should probably look that up when he gets a chance. _Late growth spurts_ —

_No, Blaine_ , _stop thinking about researching your nude stalker._

He should probably call the police, actually. Shouldn’t he? This guy could be dangerous—but he doesn’t _look_ dangerous, out there on the sand. He’s just _twirling_ , kicking up little showers of sand with a peaceful, joyous little smile on his face, singing his song.

And he keeps looking up. Probably because Blaine is a big idiot and he’s standing right in the window and the man can probably see Blaine’s shadow creeping on him.

Blaine whirls around and starts to limp to the couch, intent on sitting his ass down, finally, but he stops. The skin is still piled heavily on his ottoman, one—hand? flipper?—hanging off the side.

How strange, that this man show up right after Blaine takes this weird skin that was left lying around, and asks Blaine is he’s willing to talk _now_. Like he tried to talk to Blaine before somewhere. And he might be psychotic and all, but Blaine would remember a face like that. Even clothed, it would be—it would be special. Those eyes, that mouth, the heavy smattering of freckles—

_Oh, Blaine_ , he thinks to himself, _are you seriously thinking about talking to your psycho just because he’s_ hot?

Blaine shakes his head. _No. But even psychos get cold at night. Especially if they’re naked._

He’s been alone too long.

He sets the beer down, grabs the blanket from the back of the couch, and makes his slow, clumsy, pained way to the door.

"Hello?" he calls, once he’s opened it. "Um. Sir?"

The man stops his revelry and _prances_ up to the door. Blaine deliberately does not look at anything that might… _bounce_.

"Are you ready _now?_ " he asks.

"Um—" Blaine shakes his head, and then pushes the door all the way open, standing up straight. "I’m Blaine."

The man cocks his head. “Okay.”

Not the expected response. “Um. Yes. Would you like to—um. Would you like a blanket?” He proffers the soft throw, and manages to find a smile when the man takes it and, with a shrug, wraps it around his shoulders. It doesn’t cover what Blaine was hoping it would cover.

"Can I come in?" the man says.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just strides past Blaine, throwing a smirk over his shoulder as Blaine splutters uselessly in the doorway. He looks _really_ good walking away.

"Do you have my sealskin?"

Blaine blinks, and then the man’s words sink in. ”It’s _yours?_ "

"Of course," the man says, looking over his shoulder. And then he sits down on the ottoman, beside the skin, and pets it fondly. "I wondered if you’d find it."

"Why—why did you leave it for me?" Blaine asks.

The man looks up at him skeptically.

"Not from around here, huh?" He turns back to the skin, pulling it onto his lap, letting the blanket fall away and holding it in front of him, accomplishing a great deal more modesty this way. "But I mean…you summoned me, right?"

Blaine is beginning to seriously regret letting this man into the cottage. “Summoned? Look, who are you?”

The man stares at him hard, and then casts his eyes around. He looks at the couch, at the entertainment center, at the bookshelf. Then, he seems to spot something, and he turns back to Blaine, smiling.

"My name is Kurt."

Blaine looks over to where Kurt was looking before he answered. There are several Vonnegut books in a row on that shelf. ”Is that your real name?”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “What the hell do I need a name for? I know who I am.”

"Um—so other people know who you are?" Blaine suggests, absolutely lost.

"Like who?" Kurt asks. "My colony doesn’t need to call me anything. I can’t remember what my mother called me. I’m not around your kind long enough for a name to mean anything. No one else requests one."

"No one…else?"

Kurt looks at him like he’s stupid. “You really aren’t from around here. Okay.” He gathers up the skin and stands. “I’ll let you be.”

He walks up to Blaine, and smiles down at him from far too close. His eyes remain on Blaine’s lips.

"But I’ll be nearby," he says. "For when you…figure it out."

And then he leaves. A click of the door, and he’s gone.

Blaine rushes to the door and yanks it open.

"Kurt—"

Kurt’s on the beach, and he looks back with a smile. Then, delicately, one leg at a time, he steps _into_ the sealskin, pulling it up over him as he crouches down into it. And then, the skin twists and _throbs_ and—a seal, a live seal, bounds its way right into the water, barking away.

_What the hell just happened?_

 


	2. Chapter 2

Blaine really, really needs that alcohol he wanted earlier. Unfortunately, his leg is still busted—Kurt magically turned into a seal and may have very well traumatized Blaine for life, but didn’t have the courtesy to magically heal him, either, and the town is dark and cold and far away and would hurt a lot to reach.

He calls his producer.

"Hey, man, how’s life in the middle of nowhere—"

"Do you have any hidden booze?" Blaine asks immediately.

"Whoa. What? You know I got my bronze chip right before you left—"

Oh, shit.

"I’m so sorry, Mike, I am not thinking," Blaine says. "I busted my leg and I’m just too messed up to get to town for a drink—"

"Well, no booze, but if you check the medicine cabinet in the half-bath, there might be some leftover hydros from my wife’s surgery. As long as you didn’t already _have_ any booze, and you don’t turn me into the cops, go ahead and use what’s up there. If not that, there’s at least some Tylenol or something—”

"Thank you," Blaine says. "I’m sorry to bother you, god—"

"Don’t worry about it, I’ve been meaning to call you anyway." Blaine can hear Mike’s huge smile even over the line. "How’s life treating you? Solitude suiting you?"

"Not—not really, I think I’m hallucinating up here," Blaine says. "I—I just don’t know if I can come back right now, either. You know how I left, what I’d have to see if--"

"Hey, take your time. No more shows, remember? That’s what you said, that’s what you want, and I support you. It was high time you got away. And you can use that place for as long as you want, god knows the lady prefers the one down in Cancun anyway, you know she can’t resist all the half-naked college boys."

Blaine laughs with him, and it’s a welcome sensation. Mike’s never been one to pry too much, and Blaine appreciates the levity and the excuse not to talk anymore.

"All right, well…thanks, Mike, I’ll go look in the cabinet," Blaine says. "Talk to you soon?"

—

The half-bathroom is downstairs, and Blaine could not be more grateful about not having to climb stairs, even if he’ll have to do it to get to bed later. And thank all the gods in all the heavens, there’s a little bottle marked _Vicodin HP_ with about five pills in it. He opens it up, pulls one out, and then, with a quick mouthful of water from the sink, he swallows it. It makes his stomach rumble—he probably should have eaten something earlier. Did he eat at all?

God, what would his teenage self think of him, starving himself and—and _god_ , abusing prescription drugs?

 _It’s not abusing it_ , his older, more cynical self thinks. _You would have it anyway for the leg. It’s not expired, you’re not taking a ton to get high. You have a legitimate reason._

Teenage-Blaine in his head gives him a disapproving look and sighs. Real-Blaine does the same thing in the mirror. Too late now.

He shucks off his wet clothes down to his tshirt and boxers and stumbles back out to the living room, grabbing his laptop off its charger in the kitchen, and plops down on the couch, eyeing the distinct wetness on the ottoman before adjusting and sitting on the couch sideways, propping himself up on the bend of the sectional. He boots his laptop and bites his lip—what the hell is he supposed to be doing?

 _You could always look up people who turn into seals. Or seals who turn into people. Or both._ He sighs again, deeply. _Or you could stop talking to yourself and fucking do it, Anderson._

He pulls up his browser and types right in, _seal people_.

The first result is an image search that Blaine clicks eagerly, but it turns out to be nothing. But the very second result leads him to a Wikipedia page on _selkies_.

Thank god for search engines. He’d expected to have to endure a montage’s worth of false ends and vague clues, but—here it is. An article on the tales of people who can turn into seals and vice-virsa.

Blaine takes note of several passages. For instance, _Male selkies are described as being very handsome in their human form, and having great seductive powers over human women._ Which makes sense to Blaine, apart from the thing about women. And _Selkies are not always faithless lovers._ He’s about halfway through a vivid fantasy about Kurt returning and pledging his eternally nude love to Blaine when he realizes that he is really, really high.

But he keeps reading. He has to reread passages in several instances, because he keeps losing track and drifting into daydreams the like of which he hasn’t indulged in in a very long time. It’s like teenage-Blaine is getting revenge on him for taking illicit drugs by taking over his head when he’s addled from them. But he soaks in all the information—the myths, the lore, the popular culture. Yet most of all, he lingers on the tragedy.

How lonely must Kurt be? Selkies are supposed to take a while in their youth to explore and sow their wild oats—or wild seaweed? Only after they’d shared the love, so to speak, would they return home and settle with a family. But only if they made it there—stealing their skin would bind them.

And didn’t he take Kurt’s skin? Would it be seven years before Kurt could return? Had Blaine lost his chance? A few of these external sources mention the seven years thing, and Blaine’s still curious, he—he wants to see Kurt, ask him questions. He’s never met a mythological creature before, and he’s not likely to meet another. At least, not one that doesn’t eat him and prevent him from telling the tale.

Well. He has to risk it, then. He’ll have to risk the Loch Ness monster making a trans-Atlantic trip specifically to eat him, because he needs to go out and find Kurt before he loses his chance. He’ll learn to speak Seal, or teach both of them Morse Code (does that get capital letters? Blaine thinks it deserves capital letters, it seems complicated). Maybe he’ll buy Kurt a beach ball and they can come up with a color code or he can bounce it on his nose and then Blaine should buy a clown nose because he already has the hair—

No. Focus. Go find Kurt. Don’t die in the process.

He gets up, leaving his laptop on the couch, and walks out—walks, not hobbles. It’s not the steadiest walk, but the world is at about a 110-degree angle from his body instead of the usual 90 and it’s kind of hard to adjust. But he’s not in pain, and that’s what matters as he hops down off the porch and makes his way down the beach.

"Kurt?" he asks quietly. But Kurt’s not around, and it’s too dark to see the rocks he was on yesterday. Blaine will have to yell. " _Kurt!"_ The waves keep lapping at the shore, and Blaine stares down at them for a long minute before he realizes that Kurt isn’t here yet. So he puts his hands around his mouth like a megaphone, throws his head back, and yells, “ _KURT!_ ”

Unfortunately, his head keeps going back, and his body follows it readily. Blaine ends up on his ass in the sand, and _wow_ it’s cold, and how had he never noticed how the sand takes on the temperature of the air but _so much more extreme_ , like little ice crystals that don’t melt in his hands, and—

And Kurt is coming. There’s—there’s a seal like _twenty feet away_ and it’s doing a hop-slide toward him, and then it stops, and—and—

Kurt, naked and beautiful and with seaweed on one shoulder, starts to run toward Blaine, but Blaine only finds time to smile before his head swims sharply and the lights go out.

\--

Blaine rises from sleep like rising through water. There’s pressure in his head, and he can’t breathe, but he floats up, up, up, strains closer to the surface, rising, faster, straining for breath because he knows air is _just a little bit further—_

When he wakes completely, it’s to a mouthful of fleece blanket.

"What the—"

He flails, kicks, struggles again full body binds, and ends up with his head mercifully free of the suffocating blankets. Unfortunately, he’s free just in time to see the floor approaching as he rolls right off his couch.

His own loud yelp isn’t nearly as startling as the second one that starts up right after his own.

"Blaine!"

"Ow," he replies, squinting up as best he can from his position on his face. His body is still mostly tangled in what feels like several blankets, though, and—something is not quite right—

"Are you okay?" Kurt is there, rolling Blaine onto his back and cupping his cheeks in his strong, cool hands. "Are you warm enough?"

"I’m—naked."

"Yes," Kurt says, as though there’s something obvious about it. Blaine must look dubious enough, though, because Kurt rolls his eyes and explains. "You were outside in the cold for a long time, Blaine. You were freezing."

Blaine’s eyes narrow. “No I wasn’t. I went out and yelled for you for like…three minutes, tops, before you showed up.”

"Blaine, I don’t know how long you were out there," Kurt says. "But I didn’t hear you yelling for me. I was fishing, and when I got back to the rocks, you were sitting on the shore, staring at the water. You were there for a while, Blaine. I went to shore to see what you were doing and you collapsed—your lips were blue, you were freezing, I had to get you warm."

Blaine tries to remember. He—he can’t remember how long he stood at the water, or sat after his fall. He’d thought it was only a few minutes, but—was it?

"I’m never taking someone else’s narcotics again," Blaine says, sagging back and sighing, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, Kurt’s still above him, smiling down at him.

"So are you okay to get up?" he asks.

Blaine peers up carefully. “Um. Yeah. I can—do that. Would you—um. Mind? Giving me some privacy?”

Kurt’s smile widens, his eyes going darker. “You know I’ve already seen what you’re trying to hide, right?”

Blaine blinks, and then feels himself flushing. “Um. Yeah.”

Kurt’s eyes rove down his body—all covered with lumpy blankets right now, but Blaine feels his nakedness underneath, like his skin is suddenly alight with exponentially more nerves than he had previously.

"If it helps your modesty any," Kurt says casually, wearing a worrisome smirk, "the blankets were only there to keep in the warmth I’d already provided you with my own body."

And then Kurt stands, revealing that he is naked himself. Naked, and he laid against Blaine that way, pressed their bodies together, oh _wow_ —but then he turns and, with an exaggerated glance over his shoulder, cuts off Blaine’s thoughts and says, “I picked out some dry clothes for you,” and walks to the kitchen.

Blaine wiggles around for some freedom and leverage, and sits up. Sure enough, there are clothes on the ottoman next to him. He glances to the kitchen—Kurt’s not in sight behind the back of the couch, so he grabs the shirt quickly and pulls it over his head before taking the pants and yanking them on quickly.

Standing, he looks down at himself. Kurt is obviously a stranger to clothes; he picked Blaine a tight seafoam green sweater vest, and a pair of violet biking shorts with NYU in white across the ass, Cooper’s gift to him for getting accepted to Tisch back in high school. They’re old, but they’re decent workout clothes—but he’s not terribly excited to wear them now, as Kurt didn’t provide him with any underwear. These shorts are _tight,_ and looking down, Blaine can see… _everything_.

"Hm," Kurt says, ambling over and standing behind the couch, the cushions of it _just_ high enough to cover— _him._ He looks Blaine up and down, lingering on the problem areas Blaine was nervous about. “I suppose that works.”

"Yeah, it’s—" Blaine pauses, not wanting to be rude or mean to Kurt. He just saved Blaine’s life, most likely. Still, he finds himself folding his hands down in front of his crotch, increasingly uncomfortable about all of this. "Thank you, Kurt. I—really appreciate your help."

Kurt smiles—no wickedness, no flirtation, just happiness, teeth showing and eyes crinkled. He looks—really beautiful like that, less like some lutful siren and more like a normal man.

A normal naked man, still.

"Um. Would you like some clothing?" Blaine asks. "It must be—chilly—"

Kurt looks at him hard, the smile fading away. “Do you know what I am, now?”

Blaine sighs and sits down. His body aches, and he’s not entirely sure he isn’t getting sick from the way his head swims.

"Yes," he says. "I—I did research."

Kurt smiles and walks over. Blaine doesn’t watch, but he’s forced to see when Kurt slides in front of him and sits down before him on the ottoman. His knees slot with Blaine’s, and he leans back on his hands, unconsciously displaying his tight, strong body. “And?”

Blaine looks up at Kurt’s face; it’s safest. “You’re a selkie?”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “Yes, Blaine, obviously. I mean, what do you _think_? What did you discover about me? Why am I here?”

"Well, I—I took your skin," Blaine says. "Um. That trapped you on land. So. You came and got it and—I guess you don’t have to stay at sea for seven years?"

"No," Kurt says. "We’re people as well, Blaine, some of us tell lies. What else?"

"You—you come to land to…um. Encounter humans?"

"Encounter?" Kurt asks. "I haven’t heard that word before."

Blaine feels his cheeks heating. “Um. You come up to. Have sex with us.”

Kurt bursts out laughing, head thrown back. It’s a raucous, happy sound, and Blaine smiles reflexively at it.

"It’s a little more complicated than that," Kurt says. "I mean, yes, often we do come to _encounter_ humans. But we’re here to learn culture as well. We have to exist near you; we need to learn your ways.”

Blaine nods and considers that. “And—have you been doing this long?”

Kurt shrugs. “A year now.”

"Aren’t you lonely?" Blaine asks. It’s what struck him the most from his research the night before, and he remembers it vividly despite the foggy state in which he learned it. "I mean—I don’t know how much of what I read was true, but. It said you travel alone for a long time before you go back to your family and settle down."

Kurt shrugs again. “Not necessarily. Some of us never travel. Some of us only go to another herd to find a mate. Some of us come to the humans and mate among you. We’re still people, Blaine,” he says deliberately, holding Blaine’s gaze. “We all make our own choices.”

Blaine feels vaguely ashamed. “Oh. I’m…sorry, I didn’t think you weren’t a person—”

"I know," Kurt says.

"So. You chose to travel?"

Kurt looks away, like he’s remembering. “I did. My mother was a land woman, and she had my father’s skin. So he stayed with her. I grew up between the land and sea for—six years? I hardly remember it. I don’t even remember what named she used for me. When she died, my father brought me back to the sea, and I stayed with him in his herd until I reached age.”

"So—so you’re half-human?" Blaine asks.

"That’s not—" Kurt takes a breath and shakes his head. "I’m selkie. All selkies can _become_ human. That is why we are selkie. We’re all half. But most of us live at sea. We’re part of it—we always return to it.”

Blaine nods. He’d read that—they always long for the sea. “So you’ll go back eventually?”

"I never left," Kurt says. "I come to land sometimes. But I am still part of the sea, Blaine. No one has stolen my skin, and I haven’t given it to anyone." He smirks again, and it changes his whole face. "At least…not to someone who kept it."

Blaine can’t put his finger on what exactly he’s feeling, but there’s an empty ache in his stomach that isn’t hunger. “I—I’d never steal your skin from you, Kurt.”

"Well," Kurt says, "you’ve already stolen it once, remember?"

"I had no idea, Kurt, none," Blaine babbles nervously. "I swear. I’d never—"

"Blaine, I’m teasing," Kurt says, shaking his head. "I know you didn’t know. But you took it. Why?"

"I didn’t know what it was." Blaine tries to relax—Kurt isn’t accusing him of anything, he’s just telling the truth. Blaine can do the same. "I didn’t know if it belonged to anybody, if it was valuable. I didn’t want the tide to wash it away."

"Well, it’s _very_ valuable,” Kurt says. “So thank you. I much prefer not to swim in this form. It doesn’t dive very well.”

"Where’s your skin now?" Blaine asks.

"I’ve hidden it," Kurt says. "I—thought I’d stay, if I’m welcome. I haven’t been on land much."

"You want to stay with me?" Blaine asks.

Kurt smiles. “Is that a problem?”

Blaine isn’t sure. Kurt is—Kurt is beautiful, and fascinating, and Blaine owes Kurt his life. But this all feels— _precarious,_ like he’s going to blink and realize he’s been hallucinating. And he can’t shake the empty pit in his gut that tells him something is wrong. The doubt—

How long will Kurt stay? What will he _do_ here? Selkies are seducers, does he just want Blaine for sex before he goes on his way? Blaine’s not sure if he’s opposed or not—Kurt is stunning, and playful, and a couple of years ago, back in the city, Blaine would have ached for him had they met then. But Blaine’s been in perpetual loneliness for a long time, hardly alleviated by the past decade or so of failed relationships. He doesn’t feel particularly capable of it.

But Kurt isn’t asking for a relationship. So why does Blaine jump to that conclusion?

"Blaine," Kurt says, drawing his attention back out of himself. "Are you afraid?"

"No," Blaine says. "Not of you."

"I didn’t ask if you were afraid of me, I just asked if you were afraid."

That hits Blaine hard, and he feels a well of emotion that overwhelms anything he’s felt for _years_. He’s felt—so _muted_ , like part of himself died along the way, and he can’t figure out how it happened. He—he used to be so _alive_ , he used to take delight in so much of life, he used to feel excited over everything. And he’s had success he dreamed of his entire life. He’s loved. But none of it lasts. His show went on for years, but it ended; his lovers left, his friends came and went.And it wore at him bit by bit.

Blaine’s afraid of _life_. Because it could just continue to let him down, to feel _bad_. He doesn’t want to feel bad anymore. This—this feels like a disappointment waiting to happen. But he’s more afraid of going on as he is—unfulfilled, empty, _angry_ all the time.

When he looks back up at Kurt, there are tears welling over, sliding down his cheeks freely. “I’m terrified.”

Kurt takes Blaine’s hands in his own. “Tell me to stay and I’ll stay. But I don’t expect anything of you, Blaine.”

He leans in, and Blaine follows the gentle tug of his hands, leaning into him as well. Inches away, he feels Kurt’s breath on him.

"Tell me to stay," Kurt commands.

Blaine breathes deep.

"Stay."

Kurt’s smile makes him look years younger, splitting his face and crinkling it up with joy. He bounces and laughs and then surges forward, straddling over Blaine on the couch and planting kisses over his face.

"Thank you," Kurt says. "Oh, I’m so excited, you have to teach me _everything_.”

"About humans?" Blaine asks, flabbergasted, and a little caught by the tingling phantoms of Kurt’s lips all over his face.

"Yes, of course," Kurt says. _Oh, silly me_. “I told you, I haven’t been on land much. It was just…so _boring_ , Blaine, all these fishermen and people who come and go and do _nothing_. But you can show me what it’s really like—please tell me it isn’t just lazing around and staring at that thing.” He points to the laptop, and Blaine laughs.

"Uh, sometimes it is," he says. "But it’s got a lot of information on it, actually. There are a lot of things I can’t show you here, but I bet I could give you an idea if I used that."

Kurt looks skeptical. “I don’t trust it.”

Blaine laughs again. “It’s not going to hurt you, Kurt—”

"No," Kurt says, and he’s somehow _heavier_ , pressing down into Blaine, forward, and Blaine leans back against the couch as Kurt leans in. “Can I trust you?”

Blaine’s face is hot with Kurt’s breath over it, with his eyes boring into Blaine’s, his lips within reach. “Yes. Can I—trust you?”

"With what, Blaine?" Kurt asks. "You don’t have a magical skin, from what I’ve seen. I can’t steal anything from you."

 _My heart_ , Blaine thinks. So many ways for Kurt to steal that, or to hurt it at the very least. Blaine is just as vulnerable here, but there’s no corporeal form for it—Kurt could wrap Blaine around his finger without even realizing, could trap him. Blaine always fell in love too easily. But he could destroy Blaine, too, without a single bit of effort. Blaine is at a crossroads in his life—Kurt could easily point him to a cliff.

But he doesn’t say any of this. He just says, “You could steal some of my clothes.”

Kurt fights a smile, giving Blaine a playful glare. “You like me like this.”

Blaine splutters for a second, and then he just shakes his head. “Maybe. But I won’t be able to teach you if I’m distracted.”

"Maybe you’d be less distracted if you _joined_ me,” Kurt suggests, nuzzling along Blaine’s jaw. His hands are—somewhere, everywhere? One is on Blaine’s neck, the other on his side, holding Blaine in this melting form, this shape, molding him—

He turns his head, and Kurt’s lips are _right there_ , soft and—and warm—so close, brushing his own, Kurt’s top lip catching on Blaine’s bottom—

_Can I trust you?_

Blaine pulls back. Kurt doesn’t trust him. And he has every right not to—protecting himself by hiding his skin is absolutely reasonable. But Blaine should have that right as well—not to guard his skin, but to guard his own most precious and fragile possession. He doesn’t have much heart left—he’s not going to give it to a total stranger who happens to be a magical creature known for loving and leaving. Blaine doesn’t do things by halves—that’s what it would be.

So he can’t. He can’t trust Kurt. Not with this. Just like Kurt can’t trust him with his skin.

"I—I’m going to get some warmer clothes," Blaine says. "I’m feeling kind of chilly." He moves, and Kurt slides off of him, looking up at him carefully. "Um. I’ll get you something, too. You’re missing a lot of—blubber, like that, aren’t you?"

Blaine wobbles his way out, his leg aching again, his whole _body_ aching, his muscles his bones his head his heart. And he’s just so _cold_. He needs more clothes, that’s all it is.

 _And blubber, Blaine? Really?_  


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine desperately needs a drink, now, after navigating the stairs in his state. Unfortunately, that means navigating half a mile of path. He’ll just have to take it.

He pulls on some decent clothes—underwear, pants, shirt, sweater, socks—and then pulls out some sweatpants and a looser sweater for him, along with some regular underwear and socks. It should work. It should—should—

Remove temptation, is what it should do. If Kurt was even still here, now that his chance to have an _encounter_ with Blaine has been—delayed, or destroyed, Blaine doesn’t even know. He’s a fucking idiot, he doesn’t know anything.

"Are those for me?"

But Kurt’s there, leaning against the door frame, far too casual for someone who’s dick is hanging out. But then, Kurt’s used to nudity—and that he’s here, asking for the clothes Blaine had offered so fumblingly. He’d offered them—pointedly, actually, for a reason, to get Kurt’s body out of his sight and hopefully out of his mind. It was another way to keep him at arm’s length.

God, it’s all complicated and messy and weird. He’s handing clothes to a mythical creature because he can’t stand to see him naked anymore, knowing that he can’t let himself fuck said mythical creature. It’s very likely he’s gone completely insane from his isolation and despair.

Still. Kurt’s here, Kurt’s a person, and Blaine has been—kind of an asshole.

"I’m sorry about earlier," he says as Kurt pulls on the clothes. Kurt blinks at him, and then smiles. And he looks—quite handsome, actually. He practically bursts out of Blaine’s clothes, for as lithe as he is he’s built larger than Blaine, and he’s casually rumpled and smiling at Blaine.

"Don’t be," Kurt sighs. "I’m not just here for that, Blaine, and you have every right to withhold your consent. It’s not like you summoned me under false pretenses—I came here myself. Not that it wouldn’t be nice if you changed your mind," he adds playfully.

"Well…" Blaine pauses, and—looks at Kurt, _really_ looks at him. He would _love_ to get to know Kurt better, talk to him, befriend him. And he’s attractive, and interested, and _interesting_. Why can’t he do that? Get to know him, teach him what he wants to know about life on land, be his _friend_.

After all, what the hell else is he going to do with his life? He doesn’t have any pressing engagements. He’s _lonely_. Why can’t he have a friend?

"Do you want to go get lunch?" Blaine asks.

Kurt’s eyebrows raise. “Food?”

"Yes," Blaine says. "In town. There’s a little diner, it’s got some really great food. And there’s a liquor store right next to it, so we stop there on the way home."

"Liquor?" Kurt asks dubiously. "Is drinking wise?"

"Probably not," Blaine admits. "But my leg is killing me and we have to walk there, so. I want it to be worth it."

Kurt shakes his head. “Lead the way.”

—

The walk into town is painful, but Blaine hobbles along and manages for at least three-quarters of the trip before Kurt rolls his eyes and tugs Blaine’s arm around his neck, holding it up with one hand and around Blaine’s waist with the other. Blaine leans on him for the remainder of the trip, navigating awkwardly into the diner and then into a booth. Kurt sits next to him in the booth, rather than across, and it’s that that reminds Blaine starkly how Kurt is from a completely different culture, no matter how naturally he speaks English.

God, he’s from a different _world_.

"Oh, honey, are you okay?" An older waitress comes over and hovers, leaning down to peek under the table at Blaine’s leg. "Did you get hurt on your way in here?"

"No, no," Blaine assures her. "I got hurt out on the beach. Fell in the water and jammed it between a couple rocks—" He cuts off, completely unsure of when it happened. Yesterday? The day before? It had to be yesterday, that’s when he took the drugs, when he met Kurt—but it feels like longer—

"And you came here of all places?" She shakes her head. "You know, you’ve been coming here off and on for months and never told me your name," she says kindly.

Blaine smiles, glancing down at her nametag. _Edith_. “My name’s Blaine,” he says, holding out a hand.

"Edie," she says, shaking it firmly. "Well Blaine, now that we’re friends, I’ll tell you that you need to get that checked out, or at least get a wrap for it. Didn’t your mother ever teach you the basics? Rest, ice, compression, elevation? You are doing _none_ of those things—”

"I promise I will after I get something in my stomach," Blaine says.

"Well, go ahead and put it up on the opposite seat, no one here’s gonna care," Edie says with a smirk. "And let me know your order and the name of your handsome gentleman friend here."

Blaine gives her a warm grin. “This is Kurt. And what do you suggest?”

Edie looks thoroughly pleased. “I know it’s not very _local_ of us, but we’ve got a damn good BLT. Bacon stacked as high as your arm, some organic lettuce and tomato to make you feel less bad about the bacon.” Blaine laughs. “Put some sweet potato fries on the side, it’s pretty damn good.”

"I’ll take the BLT," Blaine says. "Uh—Kurt, do you like fish?"

Kurt looks over at Blaine like he’s got three heads. “I eat almost nothing _but_ fish.”

"Mmm. Mackerel’s in fresh," Edie says. "Unless you want the sandwich too, it’s pretty damn good."

"I’ll take it," Kurt says. "I think I’ve eaten plenty of fish for now."

Blaine tries not to let his chest go tingly-excited with the implications of that. He fails pretty spectacularly, but he covers by ordering some lemonade to go with it.

"Didn’t you want liquor?" Kurt asks.

"They don’t serve it," Blaine says. "There’s a convenience store at the end of the block. I’ll pick up some beer and an ace bandage after we’re done here."

The silence afterward is awkward for a long moment. Blaine’s not used to sitting right beside someone in a booth with no one across from him, especially a near-stranger whom he has seen naked more often than not.

But then Kurt leans into his shoulder, and smiles at him.

"What exactly is bacon?"

Blaine turns to him, wide-eyed. “You—you’ve never had it?”

"I only spent six years living on land, Blaine," Kurt says, rather defensively. "And my mother tried to…accommodate my father. She knew we’d go back to the sea, I think. So we mainly ate fish, and I don’t remember much else about anything else. I know some vegetables, though, and some desserts. My mother loved sweet food," he adds quietly, half to himself.

Blaine takes that in, sees the wistful smile on Kurt’s face. He looks—sad and happy, at the same time. Blaine’s never really lost anybody; it’s an unfamiliar look to him. But he can imagine.

He reaches over and takes Kurt’s hand.

"They have some _amazing_ cake here,” Blaine says. “And I bet the store has some ingredients for baking. We can—we can bake? Teach you how to make the sweet food yourself?”

Kurt smiles at Blaine, breathless and blinking and softer, somehow, than he has been til this point. “Can we?”

"Yeah."

Edie clears her throat, and Blaine jumps back, smiling at her reflexively as she sets down the lemonade, saying, “Sandwiches’ll be up in a minute.”

And then she _winks_ , and Blaine feels like he could start spluttering and making excuses any second. So he takes a sip of the lemonade, and then another, and then he sees Kurt staring at him with an amused eyebrow raised right up, and so he nods and hums approvingly, and Kurt laughs, and it’s all good.

—

The sandwich is good, too—Blaine does feel like his arteries are clogging right after he’s done rhapsodizing over how good it is, but one sandwich won’t kill him. The cake is better. Blaine gets carrot cake so he can hide behind the vegetable in its name despite the pile of cream cheese frosting on top, and Kurt goes for something that might have more chocolate than the human body can technically handle. But then, Kurt’s not human, so Blaine just grins as Kurt makes ecstatic, orgasmic noises.

And totally doesn’t get a boner. Nope. Not even a little chubby. Blaine is _totally_ in control of his libido. And thank god, his lemonade is _really_ cold.

"Okay," Kurt says, when they’ve paid and left and walked to the convenience store. He _skips_ in, and grabs a basket, and puts it over his arm like a beautiful male Dorothy ready to take on the Yellow Brick Road. He looks back at Blaine—and god, Blaine might as well start calling himself Toto.

He has a vague notion about being the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion, and then it passes as Kurt nods sharply to the store at large.

"Are you coming?"

Blaine smiles. “Yeah.”

\--

Kurt is the best shopping buddy Blaine has ever had, and for the most unexpected reason—because he insists on spending all of Blaine’s money.

Not that he knows that’s what he’s doing. And it’s not like he could _actually_ do it; Blaine’s got a substantial banking account. But he’s doing his best, and Blaine honestly cannot wait to see the look on the cashier’s face when they get there.

Kurt has two baskets, and Blaine is carrying one himself. And they are filled with all the various things that Kurt has found fascinating on their way through the store. It started with candy, which Kurt asked if they could get, and then various snack foods, and then it moved into cosmetics and hygiene products, and then they make their way through the aisles by the pharmacy and end up with all kinds of medicines and bandages and Kurt even grabs a cane.

"We have to walk back, Blaine," he reasons. Blaine takes it—he might as well. It’s not like he doesn’t have a hundred other useless things to purchase now, and it makes Kurt grin widely enough to flash his teeth. His pure, bouncing joy is infectious, and Blaine just follows him around like a puppy.

"Excuse me."

They’re back in the food section—Kurt is currently staring disgustedly at gummy worms as though trying to work out _why_ —and a tall, handsome man with bright eyes and a bright smile hovers up to them, staring at Kurt.

"Yes?" Blaine asks. It comes out crisp, and he covers by smiling. The guy looks at him worriedly, though Blaine’s not sure why; he looks kind of like he could take Blaine down. Blaine’s tough in his own way, but Blaine’s always felt wary of people with tattoos.

"Um, I’m sorry, I just—" His gaze flickers back to Kurt, and his smile returns. "My name is Elliott. And I just—god, I have to ask you the _weirdest_ question, _please_ do not judge me.”

"Me?" Kurt asks, blinking rapidly in surprise. His head tilts and he wears the most endearing look of confusion.

"Yeah," Elliott says. "I just—oh my god, this is _so weird_. But would you happen to…dance naked on the beach?”

Kurt freezes, his eyes wide, whites all around the iris. They dart to Blaine, and then back. “You saw me dancing naked on the beach?”

"Yes, I’m pretty sure," Elliott says. "I mean, it’s always in the dark. But I’d swear it was you."

"You’ve seen a naked man dancing on the beach numerous times?" Blaine asks, catching the _always_. His heart stutters into a freeze as he realizes that it’s perfectly possible that Kurt has _encountered_ this guy before, maybe Elliott _summoned_ him.

Didn’t Kurt say Blaine summoned him?

"Well, yeah," Elliott says. "I mean, you were out there last night, for sure—down on the peninsula? You were in front of one of the cottages out there. Yours, I take it?" he directs to Blaine.

"Well, I am staying out there—"

"So it was you!" Elliott says. "And last summer—was that you, too? Usually I only come up here during the summer, I’m actually only up here for a couple of days right now, I leave like…day after tomorrow and don’t come back for another three weeks. But I had to know."

Kurt sighs. “Yes, that was me,” he admits. “You have a keen eye. And my name is Kurt.”

"Well, aren’t you just scandalous," Elliott says, grinning. "I can’t imagine how much fun that must be. Do you just—do it? Or are you into like, new age-y sky dancing stuff?"

"It’s just something I do," Kurt says. "I feel—free, when I do it."

He smiles at Blaine when he says it, and Blaine can’t help but smile back.

"Oh, you two are adorable," Elliott says, reaching out and patting each of their shoulders. "I’ll let you get back to your shopping. Next time I’m in town, I’ll see if you’re still here, we’ll have a bonfire and all dance naked around it."

"I like that idea very much," Kurt says. "Sounds much warmer."

Elliott laughs, and then with a round of waves, he’s off.

"Wow," Blaine says. "I was worried for a sec."

"About what?"

Oh, shit. He—kind of hadn’t meant to say that. But now Kurt is looking at him, and he blanks on any kind of excuse. The truth will have to do.

"Um," Blaine says. "I kind of—wondered if he’d…summoned you before. Or if you’d. Um. Visited him? In your year around people?"

"You want to know if I had sex with him?" Kurt asks.

"That’s—your business," Blaine says, as quickly as he can. "I’m sorry, I’m just. Curious."

"I’ve _encountered_ two humans in my time away from my family,” Kurt says. “One was an older man who had come up to rent a cottage with his friends. He was laying alone on the beach one night, and I liked the look of him. He was handsome, and he seemed peaceful. So I came up to the shore and he smiled at me like nothing unusual had happened…and I seduced him right there on the beach.”

Blaine isn’t sure he wants to hear more—all he feels is jealousy, and a weird feeling that borders on regret. He doesn’t regret getting to know Kurt, but what if he had welcomed Kurt last night? Or this morning? Or…?

"And you."

Blaine blinks. “Me?”

"My seduction wasn’t as successful the second time," Kurt says ruefully. "But I’m working on it," he adds with a playful smirk.

"And…that’s it?" Blaine asks.

"Oh, apparently this Elliott guy saw me dancing naked, but I don’t find that particularly troubling." Kurt shrugs. "I’m not sure I understand human modesty yet."

"Well, we can talk about that," Blaine says, nodding toward the register and limping beside Kurt as they head up. "It’s part of our culture, after all. Isn’t that what you’re here for?"

"Mmm."

"Though—I have to ask, because you’ve said two different things," Blaine says, dropping his voice. "Did I summon you? Because you said I did, and then you said you came here yourself."

He starts loading their baskets on the counter by the register, and Kurt, interestingly enough, blushes.

"Um. Both?"

The cashier rings them through with a little courtesy and a lot of judgement. He raises an eyebrow at every item that he rings through that doesn’t seem to make sense—a tube of dark red lipstick, a package of tampons, a bottle of laxatives, a package of Play-Doh, and much more besides. Blaine just waits and pays, and graciously lets Kurt grab up their bags as he tries out his new cane, squinting too hard as they go out into the afternoon sunlight.

"So. Both?"

"There is…magic that summons us," Kurt says. "The tales say that if you want to encounter a selkie, you have to go out onto a rock in the sea and shed seven tears into the water."

Blaine’s memory throws up a card. He read about that. And— “So—wait. When I went out onto that rock. Before you came. When I was—sitting there. Was I crying?”

"Well," Kurt says awkwardly. "You—you _looked_ like you were crying. Even though you waved to me.”

Waved? “I waved to you?”

"When I was a seal," Kurt clarifies.

Oh. _Oh_. “Um, Kurt, I wasn’t…exactly _waving_ —”

"No? With your finger—"

"No. Um. Add it to the list of things we’ll talk about."

"Okay." Kurt sighs, walking slowly beside Blaine. "So…that’s how you ‘summoned’ me. By looking sad. I just—wanted to make you feel better."

Blaine smiles over at Kurt. “Kurt.”

"Of course, instead I got you injured, confused you, scared you, and then violated your personal space, all before inviting myself to stay with you—"

"Kurt, no." Blaine stops Kurt with his free hand, holding Kurt’s wrist. "I want you here, okay? I’ve been—"

Blaine runs his hand through his hair, blows out the air in his lungs, and takes a fresh breath. Kurt sets his bags on the ground and takes Blaine’s hand in both of his own. Blaine smiles.

"I’ve been really, really lonely out here," Blaine finally says, looking up into Kurt’s eyes. Ocean eyes, reflecting it even when Kurt isn’t looking at the water. He’s looking at _Blaine_. “I’ve been going crazy, actually. I haven’t— _done_ anything, I’ve just been sitting around feeling sorry for myself.”

"You’re still kind of doing that, Blaine," Kurt points out.

"I know," Blaine says. "And. I’m going to work on it. I should be doing something with myself, even if I’m having a quarter-life crisis right now."

"We can talk about that, too," Kurt suggests. "Since I don’t really know what it is. But if it’ll make you feel better, too."

Blaine laughs, and ducks his head. God, how can someone so strange and so far beyond Blaine’s world be—so perfect? Fit into it so seamlessly?

"Sure," Blaine says. "We’ll talk about it."

He squeezes Kurt’s hand, and then they both lean down to grab the bags. The problem is, Blaine doesn’t feel like he can stand back up once he does.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asks, and his warm, wide hands are on Blaine’s back and shoulders, helping him stand.

"I’m just—really sore," Blaine says. His body aches, and he’s feeling more tired by the minute. "I need that drink I wanted. The liquor store’s back up here, come on."

—

Blaine goes into the liquor store without Kurt, who has no ID, and returns with a black shopping bag filled with four different bottles of alcohol and some mixers. When he gets back out, Kurt is standing there talking to Elliott.

"Hi again," Blaine says as he approaches. Elliott looks over at him and smiles.

"Hi," he says, glancing down at Blaine’s bag. "Wow, you having a party?"

"Just stocking up," Blaine says. It comes out a lot less friendly than he would normally allow himself to be, but he can’t help it at this point. He feels like he’s hungover before he’s even begun.

"Elliott was just telling me that he could give us a ride back to the cottage," Kurt says pointedly. "Take the weight off your knee and save us the trip with all these bags."

"Oh," Blaine says. "Um—if it’s not any trouble—"

"None at all," Elliott says. "My car’s right here—"

He helps them stow their bags in the trunk, and then, silly and gentlemanly, he opens the back seat and gestures to them. Kurt eyes the car with wonder and delight and slides on in, holding his hand out for Blaine. Blaine makes his clunky way into the car, holding Kurt’s hand for whatever excuse he can, stability or something, and then doesn’t let go as Elliott drives them down the road and onto the path to the cottage.

"So I was telling Kurt, I’m going to be here for two more days," Elliott says. "Then I have to go back to the city. I’m in school," he explains. "Probably forever. Anyway, if you guys want to get together before I leave, or if you need any help, a ride or anything, Kurt’s got my number."

Elliott pulls up to side of the cottage, and then stops the car, putting it in park before he peeks over the back of his seat and gives Blaine a wicked smile.

"I also hear that _you_ are Blaine Anderson.”

Blaine blinks. “Yes?”

Elliott holds his hand out. “I am _such_ a big fan, seriously. My senior year in high school, I skipped school and went to see you like eight times in a row, when you were playing Pippin? Oh my god, you were _so good_. And then when you went on for that short run as Fiyero, I personally thought you were so much better than that St. James guy—”

"Thank you," Blaine says. He’d turned down a chance to be Jesse St. James’s full-time replacement in the current run of _Wicked_ to come out here and mope, actually, and the decision, while necessary to his sanity and his health, still rankles a bit. “I’m really flattered, thank you.”

"Well, I hope you come back soon," Elliott says. "I heard you were on a vacation, I hope Nova Scotia’s treating you well for that. I can’t imagine how much of a vacation you need, you’ve only missed like, five shows in the past ten years, and you’ve always had a role, that’s _insane_.”

"Well, I like what I do," Blaine says. "I’m enjoying the time off, though. I did need it."

"I can imagine." Elliott turns to the cottage and smiles, and then looks at Kurt and smiles, and finally turns back to Blaine and smiles. "Well. It was amazing meeting you both, but I should get back to my grandmother. She gets cranky if she doesn’t get to nag me for more than a couple hours and I’m sure she’s in need of a fix."

—

With their thanks given and their bags taken, Kurt and Blaine watch Elliott drive off. Kurt smiles, and hums, and then hefts the bags and marches right to the cottage.

Blaine follows along more slowly. God, he _hurts_. And it’s not just his body anymore. Talking to Elliott, _liking_ Elliott despite his simmering jealousy over his friendliness and flirtations with Kurt, being reminded by Elliott of everything he gave up—it settles the already-there ache of Blaine’s muscles down, makes it seep into his bones until it pervades his entire being.

He eventually makes it into the cottage, and Kurt is already arranging things in the kitchen, lining them up on the counter in some kind of order. Blaine drops his liquor next to the counter and then, without a thought, sinks to the floor, leaning back against the wall of the kitchen across from the counters Kurt is filling up. His cane drops, and his head falls back with a _thunk_ to the wall. The floor is wonderfully cool against his too-warm body.

"Oh, Blaine."

Kurt sinks down in front of Blaine, and then reaches out with one hand, placing it on Blaine’s cheek. Without warning, Blaine feels himself crumple. He weeps, giving in to the darkest feelings he’s barely held at bay all these months, tried to deny, can’t deny.

And Kurt, beautiful Kurt, slides into his lap and guides Blaine’s head onto his shoulder, scratching his scalp and rubbing his neck with his hands, letting Blaine hold him close and cry into the shelter of his arms.

"Ssshh," Kurt soothes. "You’re not alone anymore."

He keeps saying it, and the first few times, it just refreshes the strength of Blaine’s sobs. But eventually, it eases over him, cloaks him, and warms him even more than Kurt physically in his arms, covering him.

"Why—why did you stay, Kurt?" he asks. He has to know, has to know this isn’t going to disappear in a moment, a whisper—

"Because you asked me to," Kurt says.

"No." That wasn’t good enough. "You told me to ask you. Why?"

Kurt sits back and holds Blaine’s face between his hands, wiping at his wet cheeks with his thumbs. “Because I didn’t want to leave,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You make me feel less alone. I wanted to give that back to you.”

Blaine stares up, and god Kurt came out of the depths of fantasy just for him, didn’t he—

"You do," Blaine says, swift and breaking. "You are—"

He leans in, and with a rush of breath, their lips collide.


	4. Chapter 4

Kissing Kurt isn’t like Blaine expects. He’d expected the cool of salt sea spray, the rush of waves and the give of sand beneath him. But Kurt’s lips are firm against his, warm and sure and always forward, in, like a whirlpool.

"Let’s get off this floor," Kurt suggests, running his hands back through Blaine’s hair, pushing back the frizzy tangle it had become, fingers breaking up the tangles they find as he starts to massage Blaine’s scalp.

"Unh, that feels amazing," Blaine says. "Um—bedroom? Could we—I don’t even know if I want to—"

"Sshh," Kurt says, kissing him again, gentle. "I’ll take you up there."

He shifts, and Blaine holds him tight around the neck as Kurt lifts him up, pulling his legs up. Blaine hitches them around Kurt’s waist and clings to him as Kurt makes his way upstairs with Blaine in his arms, nose pressed above Kurt’s ear, breath shaking out of him.

"It’s going to be okay."

The path up the stairs is slow, but Kurt remains steady, one strong arm around Blaine’s lower back and one tugging them up by the banister. When they reach the room, Blaine drops his legs and stumbles backward as Kurt continues to move them toward the bed.

"Wait, wait, wait," Blaine says. "Just—just lie with me?"

Kurt kisses him again. “Whatever you want, Blaine.”

He guides Blaine down to the bed, and Blaine goes willingly. His limbs feel weak and sore, and his knee is a block of pain weighing him down. But Kurt is warm next to him, solid, a base Blaine can rest on while he makes a foundation for rebuilding himself.

"You will be okay," Kurt says, and Blaine whimpers and surges in for a kiss.

It’s not earth-shattering. Kurt kisses like someone new to it, matching Blaine’s pace as best he can, still a little sloppy and off kilter, but Blaine doesn’t need his earth shattered anymore than it has been already. He needs something _real_ , and Kurt is there, Kurt is in his arms, Kurt’s mouth is on his, and against all of his logic Kurt’s about as real as Blaine could ever want.

"Touch me," Blaine gasps, laying back, offering. "Please touch me."

Kurt nods, head bobbing quickly, and then his hand is smoothing down Blaine’s torso as he continues to figure out the common language between their lips, the right dialect to synchronize what their bodies have to say.

His hand explores easily, though, with its own sure path, no help from Blaine needed. It sneaks beneath Blaine’s shirt, softly massaging Blaine’s muscles with firm fingertips and a wide, gentle palm, pressing into him like Kurt wants to reach inside and figure Blaine out one nerve at a time. But he’s firing them all as he reaches down, down, slips beneath Blaine’s pants and under the bands to find his cock.

"Yes," Blaine says, and Kurt nods and kisses him again, quiets him that way, strokes him below.

Blaine wonders when the last time he even masturbated was, because this feels—intense, like he’s been waiting and waiting and waiting and release is finally coming close. It starts to peak too quickly, and Blaine finds himself frantically grabbing Kurt’s arm to still his strokes even as he grinds up into Kurt’s hand.

"Just—oh god, just a sec," Blaine says. "I want—I want—"

"What do you want?" Kurt asks.

The appropriate answer doesn’t come immediately. Instead, a clamor takes its place— _I want to stop hurting, I want to feel again, I want to stop being confused, I want to know why I’m in pain, I want want want want want want—_

"You," Blaine says. "I want you."

He tugs at Kurt until Kurt rolls on top of him. He reaches down and shoves Kurt’s pants down, leaving him hard and beautiful in the air, and wraps his legs around Kurt’s thighs and _pulls_ him in, rocking and arching up until Kurt gets the hint, bucking against Blaine’s own cock, hastily pulled from his pants.

"Yeah," Blaine urges. "Like that. Like that, please, Kurt—"

"I’ve got you." And he does. Kurt pulls his knees beneath him, wraps his arms up around Blaine’s shoulders, and thrusts, long and steady. Blaine clings to him like a survivor to floating bit of shipwreck and takes it, lets Kurt use their bodies as they kiss above, moaning and keening and crying, building higher and higher.

"Blaine," Kurt whines, hips stuttering. "Blaine, it feels—it feels so—so good—"

"Yes, _yes_ ,” Blaine babbles, stomach starting to clench as he holds tight into his orgasm. “Yes, yes, please, please Kurt, please _fuck me_ —”

He comes hard, and feels his belly and groin drenched with warm splashes of come that are far too many to be just from him. Kurt is spasming over him, high, throaty sounds falling from his lips to Blaine’s ears until he settles, holding Blaine tight.

"Does it always feel like that?" he asks, kissing Blaine’s neck after a long moment, his voice still tight. "Blaine, does it—"

"I thought you knew already," Blaine says.

"It—it was good, but—not like that," Kurt says. He kisses Blaine’s mouth, tongue exploring, passion high. "Mmm, I’ve never felt anything like that, Blaine—"

"I—I haven’t either, Kurt," Blaine says truthfully. "That was incredible. I—"

He sniffs, and holds his eyes closed tight. He can’t cry, that’s ridiculous, god, Blaine, _don’t cry_.

"Shhh," Kurt says. "You’re going to be okay, Blaine. I’ll help. I promise, I’ll stay, and I’ll help you—help you heal—"

Blaine sobs, and kisses Kurt again. “How do you even know,” Blaine says. “How do you know what to say, how do you know what I need.”

"I just do," Kurt says. "I just feel you." He grins mischievously and nips Blaine’s bottom lip. "Mmm, and I’d like to again—"

Blaine laughs, and accepts all of Kurt’s kisses, wincing when Kurt starts to thrust against him again, apparently still hard.

"Oh, shit," he breathes. "Oh, wow, okay—here, c’mere, let me—" He rolls Kurt over, and reaches down, cupping Kurt’s cock. Kurt bucks wildly and cries out. "Does that feel good?" Blaine asks. "Want me to keep going? We can, anything you want, Kurt—"

"Oh god," he says. "Keep—I don’t know—I don’t—don’t stop—"

Blaine grins and obliges.

\--

Kissing Kurt isn’t like Blaine expects. He’d expected the cool of salt sea spray, the rush of waves and the give of sand beneath him. But Kurt’s lips are firm against his, warm and sure and always forward, in, like a whirlpool.

"Let’s get off this floor," Kurt suggests, running his hands back through Blaine’s hair, pushing back the frizzy tangle it had become, fingers breaking up the tangles they find as he starts to massage Blaine’s scalp.

"Unh, that feels amazing," Blaine says. "Um—bedroom? Could we—I don’t even know if I want to—"

"Sshh," Kurt says, kissing him again, gentle. "I’ll take you up there."

He shifts, and Blaine holds him tight around the neck as Kurt lifts him up, pulling his legs up. Blaine hitches them around Kurt’s waist and clings to him as Kurt makes his way upstairs with Blaine in his arms, nose pressed above Kurt’s ear, breath shaking out of him.

"It’s going to be okay."

The path up the stairs is slow, but Kurt remains steady, one strong arm around Blaine’s lower back and one tugging them up by the banister. When they reach the room, Blaine drops his legs and stumbles backward as Kurt continues to move them toward the bed.

"Wait, wait, wait," Blaine says. "Just—just lie with me?"

Kurt kisses him again. “Whatever you want, Blaine.”

He guides Blaine down to the bed, and Blaine goes willingly. His limbs feel weak and sore, and his knee is a block of pain weighing him down. But Kurt is warm next to him, solid, a base Blaine can rest on while he makes a foundation for rebuilding himself.

"You will be okay," Kurt says, and Blaine whimpers and surges in for a kiss.

It’s not earth-shattering. Kurt kisses like someone new to it, matching Blaine’s pace as best he can, still a little sloppy and off kilter, but Blaine doesn’t need his earth shattered anymore than it has been already. He needs something _real_ , and Kurt is there, Kurt is in his arms, Kurt’s mouth is on his, and against all of his logic Kurt’s about as real as Blaine could ever want.

"Touch me," Blaine gasps, laying back, offering. "Please touch me."

Kurt nods, head bobbing quickly, and then his hand is smoothing down Blaine’s torso as he continues to figure out the common language between their lips, the right dialect to synchronize what their bodies have to say.

His hand explores easily, though, with its own sure path, no help from Blaine needed. It sneaks beneath Blaine’s shirt, softly massaging Blaine’s muscles with firm fingertips and a wide, gentle palm, pressing into him like Kurt wants to reach inside and figure Blaine out one nerve at a time. But he’s firing them all as he reaches down, down, slips beneath Blaine’s pants and under the bands to find his cock.

"Yes," Blaine says, and Kurt nods and kisses him again, quiets him that way, strokes him below.

Blaine wonders when the last time he even masturbated was, because this feels—intense, like he’s been waiting and waiting and waiting and release is finally coming close. It starts to peak too quickly, and Blaine finds himself frantically grabbing Kurt’s arm to still his strokes even as he grinds up into Kurt’s hand.

"Just—oh god, just a sec," Blaine says. "I want—I want—"

"What do you want?" Kurt asks.

The appropriate answer doesn’t come immediately. Instead, a clamor takes its place— _I want to stop hurting, I want to feel again, I want to stop being confused, I want to know why I’m in pain, I want want want want want want—_

"You," Blaine says. "I want you."

He tugs at Kurt until Kurt rolls on top of him. He reaches down and shoves Kurt’s pants down, leaving him hard and beautiful in the air, and wraps his legs around Kurt’s thighs and _pulls_ him in, rocking and arching up until Kurt gets the hint, bucking against Blaine’s own cock, hastily pulled from his pants.

"Yeah," Blaine urges. "Like that. Like that, please, Kurt—"

"I’ve got you." And he does. Kurt pulls his knees beneath him, wraps his arms up around Blaine’s shoulders, and thrusts, long and steady. Blaine clings to him like a survivor to floating bit of shipwreck and takes it, lets Kurt use their bodies as they kiss above, moaning and keening and crying, building higher and higher.

"Blaine," Kurt whines, hips stuttering. "Blaine, it feels—it feels so—so good—"

"Yes, _yes_ ,” Blaine babbles, stomach starting to clench as he holds tight into his orgasm. “Yes, yes, please, please Kurt, please _fuck me_ —”

He comes hard, and feels his belly and groin drenched with warm splashes of come that are far too many to be just from him. Kurt is spasming over him, high, throaty sounds falling from his lips to Blaine’s ears until he settles, holding Blaine tight.

"Does it always feel like that?" he asks, kissing Blaine’s neck after a long moment, his voice still tight. "Blaine, does it—"

"I thought you knew already," Blaine says.

"It—it was good, but—not like that," Kurt says. He kisses Blaine’s mouth, tongue exploring, passion high. "Mmm, I’ve never felt anything like that, Blaine—"

"I—I haven’t either, Kurt," Blaine says truthfully. "That was incredible. I—"

He sniffs, and holds his eyes closed tight. He can’t cry, that’s ridiculous, god, Blaine, _don’t cry_.

"Shhh," Kurt says. "You’re going to be okay, Blaine. I’ll help. I promise, I’ll stay, and I’ll help you—help you heal—"

Blaine sobs, and kisses Kurt again. “How do you even know,” Blaine says. “How do you know what to say, how do you know what I need.”

"I just do," Kurt says. "I just feel you." He grins mischievously and nips Blaine’s bottom lip. "Mmm, and I’d like to again—"

Blaine laughs, and accepts all of Kurt’s kisses, wincing when Kurt starts to thrust against him again, apparently still hard.

"Oh, shit," he breathes. "Oh, wow, okay—here, c’mere, let me—" He rolls Kurt over, and reaches down, cupping Kurt’s cock. Kurt bucks wildly and cries out. "Does that feel good?" Blaine asks. "Want me to keep going? We can, anything you want, Kurt—"

"Oh god," he says. "Keep—I don’t know—I don’t—don’t stop—"

Blaine grins and obliges.

\--

Afterwards, in the drifting peace of an ebbed tide, fingers on sweaty skin and breath slow and deep, Blaine kisses Kurt’s shoulder.

"Is it—still more?" Kurt makes a confused sound, and Blaine sighs. "I mean…more with me, than—with—"

Kurt hums, acknowledging what Blaine struggles to say. “Yes. It’s—it’s definitely new.”

Blaine finds himself grinning. “I—I feel new.”

Kurt hums again, carding his fingers through Blaine’s hair. “But are you really? Or was it—was it—” He scoffs at himself. “I don’t know how to say this.”

"I just mean—" Blaine pauses, and considers. "Maybe I just feel less empty. Like—like maybe I can start over? I have a reason, now, to…to keep going."

Kurt freezes. “And did you ever consider—”

"No," Blaine says. "I mean…retirement, yes. Becoming a drunken recluse, wasting away slowly. That was the plan I hadn’t realized I was making. I just—couldn’t figure out a way to get out of the rut."

Kurt smiles, and then suddenly breaks out into a mischievous smirk. “So you left the rut by rutting.”

Blaine bursts out laughing. “Kurt!”

"I’m proud of my mastery of your language," Kurt says. "I’m even better at it than you are."

"You might be," Blaine giggles, leaning up to kiss Kurt’s pink swollen lips.

Kurt pulls away quickly, though. “Blaine. I have an idea.”

"What?"

"Come on," Kurt says, slipping from the bed and holding his hand out to Blaine. "You need to be cleansed."

Blaine has instant images of bathing in the ocean, and shivers. “Are you serious?”

Kurt tugs him from the bed by a reluctant hand. “Just come on.”

—

Out of the cabin, Kurt bounds, naked, down the beach. Blaine, similar in nudity but not so much in freedom from shame, hunches a bit and swings his hands awkwardly in front of his crotch.

"Uh, Kurt?" he calls, limping down to meet Kurt on the sands of the beach. "It’s—kinda cold out here—"

"That’s the best time," Kurt says. The sun has set and the moon is high and silvery, just waxing gibbous and casting a faint light over the waves, and Kurt turns his face up and lifts his arms as though greeting its benediction.

And then he starts to dance.

There’s no rhythm, no patterns, he just twirls, bends, moves his arms in sinuous twists and snaking movements, spins his feet and kicks at the sand and throws his head back in abandon, a beatific smile on his lips. Blaine stares, stunned by the beauty of his body beneath the cool silver light, the dapples of shadow in the dips and the gleam on the swells of him, all his curves and all his edges.

Kurt’s eyes open, peeking. “Join me,” he says. Blaine steps in and wraps his hands around Kurt’s waist, feels the width and strength of him, and then lets Kurt guide him into a clumsy, tentative dance.

But Blaine’s muscle memory soon returns to him. He relearns himself, in little pieces, and then, weight on his good leg, he turns and twirls and twists one hand in Kurt’s as they move around each other, kicking up sand and surf alike as they slowly drift toward the peaceful waves lapping up to them.

Blaine laughs, breathlessly, and it is like cleansing. The moonlight on him is pure, and something about it sinks into him, pushing out the poison inside of him, making him pure as well. It releases in waves, the tension, the fear, the utter desolation, and it replaces with a deep ache and a fine sweat and an absolute release.

But Blaine knows something is wrong in his body. It’s not just his leg—and the ache isn’t just emotional. His muscles are weakening fast, and he stumbles and sags into Kurt’s arms too easily when he takes just a moment to pause.

"I d-don’t—" He stammers, head confused and pounding his pulse too loud, too heavy. "I don’t feel well."

"Oh, Blaine," Kurt says, hands too cool on him. "You’re warm. Are you—you’re ill, can you get back to the house?"

"Yeah," Blaine says. "I’m—just let me—"

He pushes away and stumbles to the water, kneeling as soon as it’s high enough. The water laps from his chest to his neck, washing him with freezing salt water that clings to his skin and cools him marvelously. It feels—refreshing, and painful, and Blaine has visions of baptism before Kurt hauls him to his feet and starts half-carrying him back to the cabin.

"Come on," Kurt says. "You’re sick. Let’s get you inside."

Blaine goes willingly. He feels peaceful at last.

—

Kurt insists on taking care of him. Before Blaine can even summon the will to protest—for no reason other than that it’s habit—Kurt has him sitting on the bed with a quick, “Wait there,” and has left the room. Blaine feels shivery and weak, but it’s not a long wait, and when Kurt, still naked, comes back with arms laden with medications, it just ceases to matter.

"Whatcha got there, Kurt?"

"I just grabbed—everything," Kurt says, dumping the pile on the bed—bottles full of pills and liquids and caplets. "From the cabinet in the bathroom, what we bought today, anything that looked…medicinal. Do you have a cold or the flu?"

"I think it’s just a chill," Blaine says. "Um…a cold. Probably. Just—here—" He grabs a bottle of Nyquil. "This will help me sleep and help either way."

Kurt considers the rest of the bottles on the bed, and then shrugs and shoves them off onto the floor before taking their place, sitting beside Blaine.

"Before you take that," he says, "I have something else for you. Can I—can I go get it?"

"Yeah, sure," Blaine says. "I’ll—I’ll actually just take this while I wait? It won’t kick in before you come back, I promise."

"Okay," Kurt says, hopping up. "Just—stay there!"

Blaine laughs as Kurt runs out, ass bouncing just a bit as he leaves. Blaine has stopped caring about his own nakedness, and doesn’t even think about it until he uncaps the Nyquil, sets the cap in his lap, and it brushes against his limp dick. He laughs, swigs the Nyquil without measuring it, and then caps it back up before tossing it on the floor with the other bottles.

"Blaine?"

Kurt’s standing in the doorway, and he’s holding his sealskin before him, cradled in his arms.

Blaine stares. “Kurt?”

"Blaine, I—I want you to have this," Kurt says, stepping forward and kneeling down at Blaine’s feet. "It’s my connection to the sea. It’s—it’s part of me. And I want you to keep it safe. I trust you, and I want you to trust that I won’t just _leave_. I won’t leave you, Blaine.”

Blaine blinks at his own tears, but they keep falling. “Kurt—”

"Just—take it, Blaine," Kurt says, smiling. "That way, you know I’m yours."

Kurt is serious. The skin hangs limp in his arms, which he holds cradled to his chest. It smells strongly of the sea, even dry. Blaine reaches out and touches it; it’s still rubbery, but Blaine notices now, as dry as it is, that the slick surface is actually fur—exquisitely soft fur. Blaine strokes it softly, the corner of his lip twitching a small smile.

"It’s beautiful, Kurt," he says. He looks up into Kurt’s eyes. "You’re beautiful. And I don’t want you to leave."

Kurt smiles, and silently offers up the skin.

Blaine takes a deep breath. “But.” Kurt’s face falls, but Blaine rushes to continue, “I don’t want to trap you. I’ve read—stories about it. I don’t want you to be imprisoned here with me if you ever—if you ever miss the sea. I don’t want to keep you away from it.”

Kurt smiles, and kneels up to kiss Blaine. “I know you won’t. But I realized that trust is a choice. And I’m choosing to give you that trust.” He smiles slyly. “I just happen to be able to give you a physical representation of it.”

Blaine can feel his face twisting. “Thank you, Kurt.”

Kurt grins, and kisses him again. “You know, I do like that name. I like the way you say it.”

"I forgot it wasn’t your real name," Blaine says. "Don’t you—remember what your mother called you?"

"She just called me her baby," Kurt says. "I remember her arguing with my father about it. He didn’t think I needed one—we all knew who I was, so we didn’t waste words on it."

"Do selkies—not like words?" Blaine asks haltingly.

"Well, we communicate differently," he says. "We have words. We use the language of the humans nearby, sometimes, or we mix up languages. But we don’t use them much—we can tell much more from body language, from smell, from certain patterns of calls in our seal form. I’m an unusual selkie, Blaine—most of us don’t bother with language like I do. But I like it," he adds. "I liked talking to my mother. I like talking to you"

"So…so you’re just Kurt," Blaine says. He blinks; his eyes are starting to feel gritty and heavy. "I like it."

Kurt giggles. “I do too. Now. Are you going to take my gift?”

Blaine holds out his arms, and it’s filled with the skin. It’s heavy and cumbersome, but so soft, and Blaine holds it against himself and pets it fondly. Kurt laughs, but doesn’t say anything—he just looks up at Blaine, so, so happily.

"I’m gonna put it somewhere," Blaine says. "Somewhere both of us know. Only us. That way you can trust me with it, and—and I can trust you, too. Trust you not to just…leave, if you start wanting the sea."

Kurt nods. “I like that. Where shall we put it?”

Blaine looks around. “Um. Closet?”

Kurt blinks. “Well. That was easy.”

Blaine stands up and staggers over to one of the two closet doors. There isn’t much inside this one—just some sports equipment that Blaine doesn’t really have a desire to touch piled against the back corner. The rest of it is open, as Blaine keeps his clothes in the other. So he folds it up as best he can, and heaves it up onto a shelf. Two flippers stick out and hang down, but it fits.

"There," he says, shutting the closet door and heading back to the bed. "Safe and sound."

Kurt crawls into bed with him and draws Blaine into his arms. Blaine can only yawn, his jack cracking with its enormity. Kurt giggles and settles, petting Blaine’s head where it rests on his collarbone.

"Go to sleep, Blaine."

—

It takes three days for Blaine to recover from the flu he’s come down with. The entire time, he aches, feverish and nauseated, and by the end of the first day Kurt demands that Blaine provide him with flu remedies. After that, it’s cool cloths and soup and tea and alternating between DayQuil and NyQuil for his symptoms. And rest, lots of rest. No more dancing in the moonlight, though the full moon would be a gorgeous time to do it.

"Get well, and then we can," Kurt says. So Blaine does his best to get well.

And when he does, left with only a little bit of lingering cough and sniffles, Kurt only lets him out on the porch.

"It’s a test," Kurt says. "If you get sick again I can get you inside."

So Blaine sits on the porch with his laptop and writes.

He’s not great at it. He tries to write little stories, outline bigger stories he wants to tell, the plays he wants to make. He’s not really sure of them, but he writes them down anyway. But more than that, he starts to compose. He has a good background in it, from high school and college, and it’s simple enough to use some software to get the job done. When he finally has a song completely composed, lyrics floating in the periphery of his imagination, he asks Kurt if he wants to hear.

"Sure," Kurt says. "I like music."

And he listens, and as he listens, he closes his eyes and rocks back and forth, humming along with it. He’s got a pretty voice, high and clear, ringing like his speaking voice doesn’t. God, with some training, he could be—well, Blaine doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Broadway isn’t exactly close to the sea in a way Kurt could want. But he could be pretty good, something special, something no one’s seen before.

Kurt is special.

"What does it mean?" he asks, when the song is done playing its tinny computer tune.

Blaine’s caught off guard by the question, and he pauses before saying, “I don’t know yet.”

"It sounds like…like a bird," Kurt says, as though it’s a revelation. "Like a bird who stopped flying."

Blaine’s breath catches in his throat. Fuck. He’s the bird, isn’t he.

"I imagine his wings are gone," Kurt goes on, somber, looking at Blaine sadly. "He has to learn to live without them, or figure out how to grow them back."

Blaine starts to brush it off, “I don’t—” and then—it hits him.

"Kurt," he says, opening up a blank document. "Keep talking."

"He—he did have wings," Kurt says. "But he—he lost them somehow. He—he fell? And he—I don’t know, Blaine—"

"Anything you think," Blaine says, typing away. "Just—just keep going. This is amazing."

"He has to learn to live with humans," Kurt says. "And—and he keeps looking for magic that can grow his wings back, but it doesn’t exist. And he—he meets a human, and falls in love. And. And he gives his wings up, willingly. Even though he has a chance to get them back. Because—he’d rather stay on land."

Blaine doesn’t look up, doesn’t see Kurt’s face. He’s not sure if he wants to or not. So he just finishes typing, and says, “Kurt. You should write this.”

"I can’t write."

Blaine does look up, now, to see Kurt looking wry. “Wait. Really?”

"Flippers aren’t exactly designed to hold pens, Blaine."

"Good point," he says. "Um. I could teach you? To read and write. It’s…it’s kind of hard, actually. But it’s useful?"

"And it would let you make me write your story." Kurt’s making fun of him, now, smirk wide, but Blaine just leans down to kiss that tilted slash of lip.

"That’s right," he says. "I can write the music. And we’ll work together and—and maybe this can give me back my wings."

Kurt nods, face very still for a long moment before he softens, smiling.

"Okay, Blaine," Kurt says. "I’ll help you write your silly story."

Blaine kisses him again, long and lingering. “Thank you.”

"You’re welcome."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt takes to reading quite well. Over the course of the next month, he learns to read basic books, and is advancing quickly. His writing is another story—he can type well enough, if very slowly with just his index fingers tapping out individual keys one at a time. But his handwriting is atrocious, and his hands don’t seem to cooperate, and neither of them can figure out if he’s left- or right-handed.

"It’s all bad," Kurt says one day, tossing down his pencil. "Why can’t I just use your computer, Blaine?"

He does. He spends hours clicking random articles on Wikipedia, and even more time watching television and movies with Blaine. But every night, after he and Blaine have made love, he lies across the bed, naked and sweaty on his stomach, and he taps taps taps away, writing a story for Blaine. It’s not literary genius, but every morning while Kurt orders TV shows and movies on the television, Blaine goes over what Kurt wrote and expands it and edits it, and together they’ve got almost an entire screenplay written out.

Kurt learns other things, too, of course. He’s curious by nature, and Blaine has often found him experimenting around the house.

"I found—recipes," Kurt says one day, surrounded by baked goods in the kitchen. "I think I found everything right."

Their garbage had been full that night. Kurt had misunderstood what a fraction was, and hadn’t been able to figure out the difference between “teaspoon” and “tablespoon”, so 3/4 of a teaspoon became 3 to 4 tablespoons, and baking soda has a strong taste.

But he’d gotten better at that, and he’d gotten better at remembering which TV show or movie he’d watched, and he’d become interested in pop culture as well. Blaine picks up US Weekly, and then a copy of Vogue when Kurt showed interest in dresses, and now Blaine’s lucky to find him without a copy of it near his side.

He learns other things, too.

"Oh god," Blaine gasps, relaxing back on the couch as best he can with his cock surrounded by the wet, hot suction of Kurt’s mouth. "How—Kurt, oh my _god_ —”

Kurt bobs expertly, his tongue doing— _something_ , god Blaine can hardly understand what’s going on, it just feels so fucking _good—_

"I did research," Kurt says simply, and then swallows him down to the root.

But that’s just one of many things he’s managed to figure out.

Kurt gets to learn the townspeople as well, and he and Blaine befriend several of them. Edie remains a bright presence for them, offering them free desserts and insisting they stop by _at least_ once a week, and they gladly do. Kurt ends up greeting everyone they come across, though he tires with too many people at once, as they discovered at the bar one night (along with his total intolerance for alcohol). But he enjoys walking down the street, smiling at people as he strolls hand-in-hand with Blaine.

It’s this way that they find Elliott again.

"Oh my god, look at you two!"

Kurt sees him before Blaine, and tugs Blaine into a jog across the street to greet him. They both get a big hug from him.

"How are you two, you look so much better than last time," Elliott says.

"We’re great, Elliott," Blaine says, taking Kurt’s hand again. "How are you?"

"Well, I’m here for the summer," Elliott says. "Finally finished up the courses and work I needed to do, my _god._ So—you know what that means.”

"What?" Kurt asks.

"You owe me dancing," Elliott says. "Remember? We’ll have to set that up sometime."

"We will," Blaine says, tugging Kurt’s hand. "We’ve got to go, though. We’ll see you around?"

"Oh. Sure." Elliott waves and starts backing away. "I’ll be at the bar later if you’re around. Hopefully I’ll see you soon!"

Kurt turns to Blaine as soon as he’s gone. “What was that?”

"I just—he wants to dance _naked_ with you, Kurt,” Blaine says. “That’s…a little suspicious, don’t you think?”

"No, not really." Kurt grimaces at Blaine. "Your modesty is a pain in the ass, do you know that? Blaine, clothes are not natural to me. They just—don’t have much of a point, aside from warmth. And it’s _hot_ out, I just don’t get it—”

"And I think that’s amazing," Blaine says. "And I get it, I do. But Elliott’s not a selkie, he grew up like I did. Nudity is—not always appropriate. When a guy wants to see someone naked, it’s usually got an ulterior motive."

"I think you’re just being silly," Kurt says, tugging Blaine along as they head back to the cottage. "I think Elliott just wants to have some fun, and we did talk about this before. I think _you’re_ just being too…too _stuck up_.”

Blaine’s jaw drops. ”I can’t believe you just said that,” he says.

Kurt sighs and takes both of Blaine’s hands, tilting his head to the side. “Look. I’m sorry if I insulted you. But there’s no reason not to be friendly with Elliott. I like him. I’d like to be his friend. I’d like to have _one_ friend that isn’t you. You’re amazing, Blaine, but the world is bigger than us, even though…sometimes I do like pretending it’s just us.”

Blaine has to kiss Kurt. He _has_ to. And he has to make a decision about Elliott.

"Elliott, wait!"

Elliott turns readily, smiling at Blaine, who hurries to catch up. Kurt is still down the road, waiting.

"Hey," Elliott says. "What’s up."

"Look, I’m sorry about—about being rude," Blaine says. "I’m still a little…reclusive."

"Oh, it’s no problem, Blaine," Elliott says. "I mean, I of all people would know. You’ve always been private, and after maybe the first year, you looked miserable in pap photos."

"Yeah, hence—" Blaine gestures around them, and Elliott laughs. "But. Kurt likes you, and we’d both like to be your friend. And—I was hoping you could help me out, actually."

"What can I do?" Elliott asks.

"See, Kurt—Kurt didn’t have a…a classic upbringing," Blaine says. "He’s been kind of removed from the world. And I’m trying to teach him, but I’m kind of crap at some of it. Do you think you could handle the modern pop culture, the fashion, etcetera? He’s really interested but I’ve been out of touch."

It’s the best olive branch Blaine can think to offer. And Elliott instantly looks delighted.

"I’d be thrilled," he says. "Why don’t I come over tonight? I’ll bring some drinks, we can have a little party of it."

"Sure," Blaine says. "We’ll be around."

\--

When they get home, Kurt immediately throws himself at Blaine.

"Mmm," Blaine hums around the lips assaulting his face. "I—Kurt—"

"Thank you," Kurt says, and then he’s back to sucking marks along Blaine’s jaw and throat, dragging him to the floor just inside their door, which hasn’t even swung completely shut yet.

"You’re welcome," Blaine gasps. "I just thought—I just wanted you happy—"

"So happy," Kurt murmurs, biting Blaine’s collarbone and drawing a cry out of him. "So, so happy—"

Blaine’s breath hitches as he realizes Kurt’s not just talking about Elliott coming over. He’s _happy_. And Blaine realizes that—so is he.

"I love you," Blaine blurts out, pulling Kurt up for a frantic kiss. "I’m—I just love you—"

"I love you," Kurt says, _laughs._ "I thought this was established."

"We never said—"

"You and your words," Kurt chides, and then he returns to his work down Blaine’s chest and belly, tonguing and nipping and kissing and sucking all the way down to his hips, along their lines to his groin, and finally to his cock, which is hastily taken between Kurt’s lips.

"Oh-oh," Blaine stammers. "God, Kurt—"

"Can I fuck you?" Kurt asks. "Want to—to try that—"

"Yeah," Blaine says, scrambling up and grabbing Kurt’s hand. "Yeah, let’s go do that."

—

Twenty minutes later, Blaine is stuffed full of Kurt, too much lube and too stretched, too aching and too needy, but Kurt is inside him and wrapped inside Blaine’s arms and legs and he’s so _close_ , and it feels _perfect_ , _god—_

"Why—why does this feel so _good_ ,” Kurt says. It doesn’t sound like a question, so Blaine doesn’t answer. He just moans and clutches Kurt close as he moves, thrusting long and slow into the tight cling of Blaine’s body.

"Kurt," Blaine moans. "Kurt, god—"

"Never knew," Kurt says. "Never knew this could feel so good. Like this."

"Always with you," Blaine gasps. God, Kurt’s only been at this for a month, what kind of wreck will he make of Blaine with years of experience under his belt— _if you even have years with him_ , a traitorous little voice says in his head. Blaine shuts it up by groaning as Kurt drags out of him and slams back in, whimpering in Blaine’s ear. “It always feels this way with you—”

"So much, Blaine," Kurt whines, hips speeding their thrusts as he pulls his legs under him and gains the leverage they both need. "Oh, _fuck_ —”

Blaine reaches down and takes himself in hand, stroking completely out of time with Kurt’s rhythm, unable to keep up or catch up, just stroking, soft and quick, not quick enough, as Kurt hammers home—

“ _Ohhh_ , I’m gonna come,” Blaine groans. “Kurt, please—don’t—don’t stop—”

"Never stop," Kurt gasps. "Never—"

Three more strokes, and Blaine’s body coils in on itself and then _expands_ all at once, spilling out with the come that spurts from his cock onto his stomach. Kurt gasps and fucks Blaine harder, and within a minute he’s grinding in deep and coming, nipping at Blaine’s jaw and making high little noises in the back of his throat.

"Kurt," Blaine whispers as they drift, and Kurt slips out, leaving him messy and open. "Kurt."

"Mm."

"Love you."

"Love you."

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

They’re cleaned up and presentable by the time Elliott knocks on their door. In fact, they’re sprawled out on the couch, laptop between them, muddling through a rough plot point in their play, arguing half-heartedly.

"But he can’t just—find them, Kurt," Blaine says. "Life doesn’t work that way."

"I ‘just found’ you," Kurt says. "Sometimes things _do_ just happen.”

"Yeah, but not in good storytelling."

"I’m not sure I understand why."

_Knock knock knock._

"I’ll get it," Kurt says. He hops up, almost upsetting the laptop, and hurries to the door. A few seconds later, he returns with Elliott in tow.

"I’ve got the most ridiculous drinks," Elliott says, holding up two bottles of flavored vodka. "Tell me you have mixers."

"We have mixers," Blaine says, setting the laptop aside. But not before Elliott glimpses the screen.

"Ooooh, you’re writing something?" he says. "Tell me it’s for your big return to Broadway."

"I—I’m not sure about that," Blaine says, glancing nervously at Kurt, who appears unconcerned. "It’s kind of—unfinished—"

"Well, just so you know, you have more than the opportunity to return if you want," Elliott says. "Tell me your agent has called you about the big return of the Book of Mormon. You’d be an _amazing_ Elder Price.”

"No, I—I haven’t—I haven’t even checked my phone," Blaine says. "I—I had no idea. I don’t think—"

God. What if?

"You know," Blaine says. "I—I think I’ll just go check my phone really quick."

Kurt blinks over at him, his eyes narrowing a bit. “Okay?”

"Look, it would be rude if there were a ton of messages and I didn’t at least reply," Blaine says. Somewhere deep inside him, he’s hoping he’ll convince himself that this is the truth. But it’s not.

"Okay," Kurt says. "Then Elliott and I will get started without you."

Elliott is still grinning, but it’s a little strained, his eyes shifting between them like it’s the most awkward thing. Blaine smiles apologetically and heads up to the bedroom to retrieve his phone.

_4 missed calls_

_2 new voicemails_

_19 new messages_

Blaine flips through the messages first, and they are mostly from his agent, but a few old Broadway acquaintances are asking too—is he going to be Elder Price? Come back, catapult back into the spotlight? It’s the perfect chance, after all.

The voicemails are the same—his agent first casually asking him to call back, and then pleading. So Blaine calls him back.

 _"Thank god you answered,"_ Mike says down the line.

"I called you this time," Blaine says, but Mike is talking away.

_"—and you have to audition, Blaine, but I’m telling you it’s a formality. The part is yours if you want it, Elder Price, this is huge Blaine, it’s the perfect opportunity and if you don’t take it—I will develop an ulcer, that’s what will happen. Or combust. Don’t make me combust.”_

"Jesus, slow down," Blaine says. "Look—how soon do they want me to audition?"

 _"I take it that means you want to hem and haw about this for a bit,"_ Mike says. _"Wishy and washy. Come on, Blaine, please just do this for me, for our friendship—"_

Blaine laughs. “Mike, seriously. When?”

 _"They want you as soon as possible, but I could hold them off until the end of the week,"_ Mike says. _"So…five days? And then you audition and take the part and get your ass back to New York—"_

—without Kurt.

"I’ll call you back, Mike," Blaine says. "Tomorrow, I promise. I’ve got friends over."

 _"What friends?"_ Mike asks. _"Don’t tell me. Don’t leave a mess or destroy anything, please. And call me back first thing please_ _—”_

"I will. Bye, Mike."

Blaine hangs up, and he realizes his hands are trembling. His gut is twisted up and fluttering—butterflies in his stomach, which feel like toxic mutant butterflies that are possibly also drunk.

Return to New York. Return to Broadway, take this epic part that could only further his career. And—what? Take Kurt with him, to a place where it’s best not to be in the water? The sea could be nearby, if they lived on Long Island, but it would be damn expensive, not quite in Blaine’s price range—

God. Would Kurt even go? And what would happen, if he were—seen, or found out? Seals do happen into the sounds and bays of the city, but they don’t usually hop up onto shore and become beautiful naked men. Of course, they didn’t do that here, either, until Blaine met Kurt. And he can’t just leave Kurt, can he?

He pockets his phone, and goes back downstairs.

Elliott and Kurt are already drinking, and Kurt’s face is not impressed with whatever he just tasted. Elliott laughs uproariously and Kurt shakes his head, shoving the drink away.

"No, no—" Kurt coughs a little. "I think a no on that one."

"What was it?" Blaine asks, going for genial and only achieving a shaky manic tone that has Kurt eyeing him. "The uh—the drink."

"I made him try Jack," Elliott says, turning with a smile.

"It tastes like—I don’t think I’ve even tasted anything like that," Kurt says. "It ruined the soda."

Blaine smiles. “How about we take one of these flavored vodkas and mix it up for you? Do you want—” He looks at the labels. “Cake, or tropical punch?”

"Oooh, cake," Kurt says. "I like cake."

"I’ll mix you something," Blaine says, kissing Kurt’s cheek, but Kurt pulls away and raises an eyebrow at him. "Um. Later, okay?" Blaine adds quietly, and Kurt nods and turns back to Elliott.

"So does it actually taste like cake?"

—

Three drinks for Kurt later, Blaine has had only one. He can’t let himself feel buzzed—he has too much to think about. And he knows he’s being a killjoy, in his own way, because though he tries to join the conversation and laughter with Kurt and Elliott, he only half-succeeds. And soon enough, as he predicted, Kurt and Elliott decide that it’s time.

"Okay, we’re going out," Kurt says, giggling and bumping into the counter as he walks to Elliott and reaches out. "The moon’s’out, we have to—"

“ _Yes_ ,” Elliott says, taking Kurt’s hands and pulling him along. He’s not nearly as drunk as Kurt, being evidently more accustomed to it, but he’s still flushed and laughing along with the shenanigans. “Blaine, c’mon!”

They reach the front porch, and Blaine follows behind, watching as the two of them strip down right there on the porch and then run out to the sand. Kurt immediately takes up dancing, his movements more fluid but definitely more wobbly as well. Elliott follows along, silly and goofing off, doing ridiculous club move and shaking his butt in Kurt’s direction until he realizes Blaine’s not with them.

"Blaine!" he shouts. "Come on! It’s freezing, you have to do it—"

Blaine laughs, but he waves them off. “I’ll join in a sec. Let me finish my drink.”

Elliott shrugs and goes to dance again, leaving Blaine to watch and think.

He wants this. He wants to stay with Kurt, and dance in the moonlight, and hide from the world until he’s ready. But will he ever be ready? Will he always wants to just hide, and dance with his strange selkie lover?

He smiles as Kurt dances into the waves lapping the shore, kicking at the water and swirling in it, twirling and splashing as he wades in. He looks so _happy_ there—and it’s then that Blaine remembers.

_Selkies will always long for the sea._

Will Kurt always want to stay with him? He gave Blaine his skin, and Blaine returned it, but it was still offered. Kurt _wanted_ to be bound to Blaine. But when will he tire, when will he long for the salt sea foam again? When will he long for the reaches of the tide?

Kurt can’t stay with Blaine forever. He never could. And where will that leave Blaine? With nothing?

He can’t. He can’t stay for someone who could be gone any day, who could disappear on him. He already appeared from nothing, from the depths of legend and myth, and he could slip back into nothingness at any time. And Blaine—Blaine has regained his need for life, he is genuinely eager to _live_ again, to _do_ things and _be_ somebody. What will happen to him if Kurt leaves him for the sea?

He’ll be nothing again.

"I’m going in," Blaine calls, and then he slips back inside, not waiting for a response. There can be none—he can’t let himself go, let himself dance and forget. Because Kurt—

Kurt’s not his. Not really. Kurt will always belong to the sea.

"What is wrong with you?"

Blaine turns, and it’s Kurt alone, his clothes back on. Elliott isn’t with him.

"Where—"

"He went home," Kurt says. "I apologized on your behalf, by the way."

"I’m sorry, Kurt—"

"What happened on your phone?" Kurt asks. "What was it? This—this part?"

"Kurt—"

"No," Kurt says. "Tell me now. Are you taking the part? Are you leaving?"

Blaine pauses, but he knows the truth. And he owes that to Kurt. “I’m thinking about it.”

Kurt visibly shivers, and hugs himself close. “I always knew.”

"Knew what?" Blaine asks.

"I always knew, deep down, that you’d have to go home," Kurt says. "You can’t live without your Broadway, Blaine. I knew you’d hear it call you again. And I want to go with you."

"Kurt," Blaine says. "I can’t take you with me there. There’s no place for you—"

"There’s water in New York," Kurt says. "I want to come with you, please—"

"Kurt, you won’t be with me forever," Blaine says. "So why? Why come with me?"

"What do you mean?" Kurt says. "What do you mean I won’t be with you forever?"

"You’ll go back, Kurt!" Blaine bursts out. "You’ll always go back to the sea."

"That’s what you think?" Kurt asks.

"I know it, Kurt," Blaine says. "I—I know what you are, and I know you can never leave the sea. I wouldn’t try to make you. So—so I won’t. I won’t let you."

"What are you saying?" Kurt asks, tears breaking from his eyes.

Blaine’s lip trembles, but he gets it out. “I’m not taking you to New York with me, Kurt. I’m—I’m leaving. Alone.”

"So all of this meant nothing to you?" Kurt asks, staring down at Blaine, cold.

"Kurt, of course it meant something—"

"But not enough."

He wheels around and heads straight for the stairs, bounding up. Blaine stands, helpless, until Kurt returns, carrying his sealskin.

"This meant everything, Blaine!" Kurt says, face hard and angry as he holds up the skin. "This meant forever. I _gave_ this to you, and you told me it was _my_ choice to stay or not. And now you’re taking that choice away? You’re a _coward_ , Blaine.”

Tears finally falling from his eyes, Kurt turns and walks out. He takes his sealskin with him.

—

Blaine doesn’t chase Kurt. He just stands there, in the kitchen, for a long time, numb. He drove away the only thing that kept him standing for months. He drove away—he drove away the only good thing he had. He threw Kurt away.

And he can’t shake the feeling that it’s for the best.

So he goes upstairs, he packs his bags, and he calls a cab.


	7. Chapter 7

Blaine has taken to the city like a fish back in water. He took his part, he moved back into his apartment, and he left the salty shores of Nova Scotia behind him. He left Kurt, mythical beautiful life-changing Kurt, behind him.

And he left himself behind him, too.

He fell into all his old habits. A date here, a casual encounter there. Night after night after night of the same performance, however wonderful the part might be. And over the course of the next six months, he loses himself again.

One particular night, Blaine sits in his apartment, sipping wine, reading a review of the show—of him, really—and he realizes that he hates everything about his life. None of it feels like it belongs to _him_. Not the him he found in that seaside cabin, at least.

He liked that version of him. Why didn’t he keep even a piece of him?

Blaine goes into his bedroom and sits on his bed, opening his laptop up in front of him. And instead of logging in to Twitter or checking reviews, he finds a folder with a single file within.

For the first time since he left Kurt, Blaine looks at the story of a boy who loses his wings.

By the time he’s finished, he can hardly see the screen. How could he have forgotten? How could he have thrown this away? It’s everything in his soul, right there on the page, pulled out of him by Kurt. And he himself edited and filled it out—just like his soul, pulled free, yes, but only he could build it back up. And he just quashed it back down, for what? For a role he doesn’t even want anymore?

No. For a life he thought he should have. This was the dream, right? Take the perfect role. But Blaine’s perfect role was always that of _himself_.

And he threw it away.

He grabs his cell phone and he pulls up a number he’d never thought to use.

_"Hello?"_

Blaine takes a deep breath. “Hi, Elliott?”

_"Yes. Who’s this?"_

"It’s—it’s Blaine."

There’s a long silence, then a whistle. _"Didn’t expect that."_

"Elliott, you have to help me find Kurt. Do you know where he is?"

_"No. I tried calling, and visiting, and you guys were both just gone."_

"I’m—I’m so sorry, Elliott. I made a huge mistake. I—"

 _"You took the part, I know,"_ he says. _"And you left Kurt for it?"_

"Yeah. About that. Can I invite you over for coffee?"

—

Elliott hasn’t touched his coffee.

"You’re saying Kurt is a magical sea creature?" he says, blinking up at Blaine, who can’t stop pacing around his own kitchen. "He—he’s a seal. Who becomes human."

"Yes."

Elliott blinks some more. “Are you high?”

"No, Elliott, it’s true," Blaine says. "Just—just please, please trust me. Or—or I can pay you, or—"

"No, no, that’s—that’s not necessary," Elliott says. "I do suggest a therapist, though, this is—"

"It’s not a delusion, Elliott. It’s the truth. And—and I can prove it."

"How?"

"Just—go to the shore," Blaine says. "Go back up, visit your grandma. I’ll fund the trip. And you go out onto the rocks…and you cry."

"Cry."

"Yes. Tears."

Elliott bites his lip. “Blaine, I—”

"Please, Elliott," Blaine says.

"Why don’t you go?" Elliott asks. "Take some leave, go up, go cry for him."

"Because—because I don’t think he’d come for me," Blaine says. "I hurt him so much, and I thought I was doing what was right—"

"Okay, okay," Elliott says, hands up in placation. "I’ll go. I’ll—go cry. I’ll watch the beginning of _Up_ or something beforehand. And—that’ll bring Kurt?”

"Yes," Blaine says. "Thank you, Elliott, you don’t even know how grateful I am—"

"Well, we’ll see," Elliott says. "For all we know I could just cry on some rocks for nothing. But I’ll do it."

"Thank you."

\--

It takes a week for Elliott to contact Blaine, and instead of calling, he shows up at Blaine’s apartment on a Monday night, arms crossed.

"You’re in trouble," he says in greeting, before entering his apartment uninvited.

"I—I know that, yeah," Blaine says. "I messed up—"

"Big time," Elliott says. "But at least you’re not a liar. Kurt…he definitely popped out of a seal."

"You’ve seen him," Blaine rushes to say. "Elliott, how is he—"

"Heartbroken," Elliott says, sitting himself on Blaine’s couch. "Blaine, you really hurt him. Do you even realize?"

"Yes, of course, I should never have turned him away—"

"No, I mean…Blaine, Kurt gave you his skin. Right?"

"Well…yeah. What does that—"

"For selkies? That’s basically marriage," Elliott says. "You were his _mate_ , Blaine. And you threw him away.”

Oh god. Oh god, he did—he did, he threw away his _mate_ , Kurt had been his _mate_ , as good as his husband? That’s—that’s what he did, that’s—

"Oh god," he says out loud, sinking down onto the couch beside Elliott, hardly able to process it. "I really fucked up."

"Yeah, you did," Elliott says. "It took me this long to even convince Kurt to come, and he’s not happy—"

"Come?" Blaine almost puts a crick in his neck, he turns so fast to face Elliott. "Kurt’s—Kurt’s here?"

"Well, not here here," Elliott says. "He’s at my place. He wouldn’t come here. He—I don’t think he’s made up his mind, Blaine. He’s hurt. Really, really hurt. Do you understand what you did to him? The other selkies turned him away for taking a human mate, he’s been _alone_ for _months_ —”

"Oh god, Elliott—"

"No, you have to hear this." Elliott shakes his head. "Kurt’s been living on the edges of both worlds. Selkies won’t take him, and what the hell are humans gonna do with him? He’s got nothing, he doesn’t even have an identity. Edie’s been feeding him off and on for free, but nobody seems to know what he is or how to help him. They just know you left him and he disappears for weeks at a time before he comes back for company—"

"Please stop," Blaine says, sobbing. "Please—I can’t—"

"Kurt _lived_ this, Blaine. The least you could do is hear it.”

"Then let me hear it from him," Blaine begs. "Please, Elliott. How can I see him?"

Elliott shrugs. “I don’t know, Blaine. It’s gonna take some convincing. And you have actually only got one shot, because the moment I set something up for you—”

"You’d do that?"

"Kurt is miserable," Elliott says. "The last time I saw him happy, it was with you. And I know he wants to see you. But can you blame him for being mad and hurt and—"

"I get it, please," Blaine says, wiping his eyes and sniffling. "Oh, god, I just—"

"Blaine, come up with a plan," Elliott says. "You do everything you can to make it up to him and show him you’re worth a second chance. How much time do you need to get that done?"

Blaine blinks. “How long can you give me?”

"A week. Tops. I’ll give him the tourist treatment, and hope he sticks around. But no more than that, Blaine, seriously, have something by this weekend or I’ll have to let him go."

"I’ll have something," Blaine says. "Thank you, thank you so much—"

Elliott stands. “Prove it’s worth it, Blaine. All this pain—the ball is in your court, man, and you better have a good play.”

Blaine shows him to the door. “I will.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

Within three days, Blaine calls Elliott with his plan.

"It just might work," Elliott says. "What do you need me to do?" Blaine fills him in on the rest of the plan, and by the end of it, Elliott sighs. "Kurt’s going to love it. Let’s hope it works."

Blaine laughs. “That’s all I’m doing.”

—

Azalea Pond is one of the prettiest parts of Central Park, in Blaine’s opinion. And there’s a little area that suits his purposes perfectly—just on the southern edge, near the azaleas themselves, there are rocks that remind Blaine of the rocks off the shore of the cottage, and thankfully no tourists are wandering by today, just a birdwatcher across the pond with his binoculars. Blaine hopes he’s not scaring them away.

Blaine is too early, but he was so nervous leaving his apartment, and he rushed unnecessarily. Now he’s stuck here, trembling and sweating a little more than he’d like, waiting on these rocks, fingers tapping at the bulge in his pocket.

And then, as he turns to see what the birdwatcher is doing, he sees Kurt.

God, he’s just as beautiful as Blaine remembers—no, even more so. He’s stunning, under the dappling of sunlight through the trees, standing with Elliott on the bridge nearby. He’s—he’s everything, and Blaine can’t let him go again. He can’t live without him anymore.

"Kurt," he calls, and Kurt finally looks at him—and freezes. Blaine sees Elliott whispering frantically to him, hands on Kurt’s arm, insisting, and Blaine holds his breath for a long, tense moment before Kurt storms over.

"How dare you," he snaps, wrath around him like a cloak. "I can’t believe you tricked me, Blaine. And after what you did—"

"I know, Kurt," Blaine says quickly. "Please just hear me out, please—"

"Why?" Kurt asks. "You know what you’ve done—"

"I didn’t!" Blaine says. "I—I’ve been a mess without you, Kurt, please—"

"And yet you never returned, did you?" Kurt demands. "Why should I believe you? You seriously had to make Elliott drag me down here, when you should’ve been chasing _me_ down—”

"Kurt, I’m so sorry," Blaine says. "I didn’t know what the skin meant to you, I had no idea. And I was so _stupid_ , I never should have left you.”

"No, you shouldn’t have," Kurt says, crossing his arms. "And let me guess. You’re miserable again, and now you realize what you _abandoned_?”

"Yes," Blaine says. "I am _that_ stupid, Kurt, and I need you.”

"Well, I don’t need you," Kurt says, tears lingering in his eyes.

"I know," Blaine says. "But—but do you want me? Because I want you, Kurt, I want you to be mine, and—"

Kurt stares hard at him, and Blaine knows this is his chance.

"I’ve never loved anyone like I love you, Kurt," he says. "And I’ll do anything to show it. I’ll buy a house by the sea, I’ll quit my job, I’ll do _anything_ , anything you want. We can even go back up to Nova Scotia, and we can live in the cottage forever. Whatever you want, Kurt, because—because I need you to know that you are more important than anything else to me. And I will never, never hurt you like that again, _ever_. And…and I have something to give you as a promise.”

Blaine pulls the little black box out of his pocket with shaking fingers, and he lifts it up and opens the top.

"Kurt," he says. "I—I want you to have this. Do you—do you know what it means?"

"No," Kurt says, eyeing it curiously—a break in his suspicion, his hurt, and Blaine smiles.

"It’s my skin," Blaine says. "This is—this is like me giving you my skin. Except I don’t have one to give you, so. It’s a symbol of that. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Kurt. As your mate, as your husband, as whatever you want. Kurt…will you be mine?"

Kurt uncrosses his arms and wipes the tears from his face. And then, he sighs.

"Maybe."

Blaine blinks. “Maybe?”

"Maybe," Kurt says. "I haven’t decided yet."

"Um…Kurt, traditionally, this is a yes or no question—"

"Well traditionally, you don’t just up and walk out on your mate, so it seems we’re both flouting tradition here, then."

Blaine sighs, and then nods. It’s better than _no_. ”Okay. Maybe.”

Kurt offers him a small smile, the first Blaine has seen in forever.

"Now. I believe you said something about a house by the sea?"


	9. Epilogue

In the end, the house they buy isn’t technically by the sea. The closest Blaine could get and afford is about a quarter mile away, near Sag Harbor Bay. Thankfully, though, he builds a rock pool in the massive, private backyard. Kurt spends most of his time the first few weeks in that house in the rock pool, quietly floating, serene and at ease, and that tides him over most days until they find a nice, quiet beach to sneak out to at night so Kurt can go full seal and get some time in the fresh seawater.

"So when are we getting married?" Kurt asks one night, as they’re driving back from the beach. His selkie skin is safely in the trunk.

It’s the first Blaine’s heard from Kurt on the subject—he wears Blaine’s ring, but in the four months since they reunited, no word has been spoken. They’ve been focused on getting this house, making their lives out here. Blaine hadn’t wanted to push, and Kurt seemed perfectly fine to just ignore the subject after he’d learned what humans do to “mate.”

"Um—well—that depends," Blaine says. "We can have a quiet ceremony for just us and some family and friends if you want. We can’t get _legally_ married unless you have papers.”

"What papers?"

"Identification papers," Blaine explains. "They say who you are."

"I know who I am."

Blaine laughs, remembering how Kurt chose his name from a bookshelf. “I know, Kurt. And I know who you are, too. But the government wants to know who you are as well, and—that doesn’t come from nowhere. We’ll have to… _obtain_ papers from somewhere. And I honestly don’t know how to go about that, it’s highly illegal.”

Kurt raises his eyebrows from the passenger seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"Oh." Of course he doesn’t— "Um. Humans are complicated."

"Mmhm."

Kurt’s teasing him now, all smirk and playful eyes, and Blaine reaches over and pinches Kurt’s arm. “Ow,” Kurt says, pulling back.

"Look, I’ll—I’ll ask around, okay? Maybe Elliott will know something, or—maybe Mike—"

"Maybe—we could just have it for us then?" Kurt suggests. "It seems like a lot of trouble."

"Well, it would be smart to have papers for you anyway, but I like the idea of something small. I just want to marry you."

"Well, fine. Let’s do it, then."

"What, now?"

"Can we?"

"No," Blaine laughs. "No, not on Long Island. Maybe in Vegas, but no."

"Can we drive to Vegas?"

"No," Blaine says. "But we’ll set something up for this weekend, okay? Get Elliott to officiate?"

Kurt stares at him hard, and Blaine can feel it heating the side of his face. It’s Kurt’s _you’re talking nonsense, Blaine_ stare.

"Nevermind," Blaine says. "We can talk more about it when we get home."

Kurt smiles. “I like our home.”

"Me too."

"But—can we go back to the cabin sometimes? I miss it there. And—and I want to find my father again. Tell him I’m mated. He could meet you!"

Kurt’s excitement is precious, and Blaine reaches over and takes his hand. “Of course, Kurt. I’ll ask Mike when we can use it again, and when we finalize this script—”

"Oh, god, don’t talk about it anymore—"

"—when we finalize the script," Blaine pushes on, "we can take a break and go up. But we can’t go anywhere til it’s done, Kurt, the backers want material before they’ll give us any go ahead to produce this thing."

"Fine," Kurt says. "But promise me. Soon."

Blaine kisses Kurt’s hand. “I want nothing more.”


End file.
